Ready To Sing My Song - The Autobiography of Theodore Chipmunk
by One Small Monkey
Summary: Like many musicians at the tail end of their careers, Theodore has a story to tell...and some facts to set straight. (I've put together a youtube playlist featuring nearly all of the songs discussed in this story. If you'd like the link, please let me know.) Update May 2018 - Story now complete.
1. Keeping It A Mystery

Fair warning: some of what you read in the pages ahead won't jibe with what you already know. Or what you think you already know. And I'm not talking about just a few minor things. Let me put it this way: if you've formed a mental image of Theodore Chipmunk after watching the movies, or the cartoon from the 1980s, or _The Alvin Show_ back in the 1960s, or even from the records we put out, you're probably going to have to revise that image quite a bit.

And that's at least partially my fault. I may not have set out to make "cartoon Theodore" different from "real Theodore", but I definitely had a paw in not correcting those differences once they were made. As you read on, hopefully you'll understand my reasons for doing so. And once you reach the end - assuming you make it that far - you might decide you don't like the real Theodore Chipmunk. You might decide to reject this autobiography completely, and hold on to the image you formed based on the movies, or the cartoon, or your favorite childhood record. That's your call, and I'm fine with that.

That being said, before we get started, what can you hold on to from your past? Surely it wasn't all lies? No, it wasn't.

* My name is Theodore.

* I am a chipmunk. One of those larger, standing-on-his-hind-paws, self-aware chipmunks, but a chipmunk nonetheless.

* I play the drums.

* I have two brothers named Alvin and Simon.

* We three brothers performed together in a musical group. Sometimes we just sang, and sometimes we played the music.

* When we did play the music, Alvin played guitar (usually) and Simon was on bass (usually).

* There was a man who went by the name of David Seville, who wrote a good deal of our early material.

But, as they say, the devil is in the details. So let me see if I can start filling those in.

(Quick note. I interviewed my brothers, and a few other people, for this autobiography. Anything given in present tense - "Alvin says" - will be from those interviews. Anything given in past tense - "Alvin said" - will be my recollection of what was said back then.)


	2. The One That Giggles Known As Theodore

"(We're Gonna) Rock Around the Clock" by Bill Haley & His Comets opens with a double snare hit. And throughout the first verse, after Bill sings each line, session drummer Billy Gussak delivers another double snare hit.

Each of those hits was like a slap across my pre-teen chipmunk cheeks.

I had liked songs before that. I had bought records before that. I had even had what you might call "favorite songs" before that. But "Rock Around the Clock" was different. It was more like an obsession. The day after I first heard it, I rushed down to Wallich's Music City to buy the record. And it ended up owning me every bit as much as I owned it.

I played it over and over on my little record player, which drove my adopted mother Mrs. Gorman crazy. Both my brothers Simon and Alvin loved the song too, but even they thought I had gone a bit overboard. I wore out my 78rpm copy within a year, and immediately bought a 45 as a replacement.

And unlike any of my earlier favorite songs, this one compelled me to get involved. I didn't just want to hear those sounds. I wanted to make those sounds. I built my own little drum kit in the basement, from things I found around the house. Cardboard boxes, an old pail, coffee cans, and anything else that sounded good when you hit it with a stick. I started banging away on them - first with pencils, then with actual drumsticks that I bought at the music store. It was like the secret of the universe was in those things, and I was only able to access it by pounding away on them just right. Mrs. Gorman finally had enough of the clanging noises coming from her basement, and sprung for an actual scaled-down drum set for me. Better to hear actual drum sounds than what probably sounded like a fork in a garbage disposal.

Before "Rock Around the Clock", I was a music fan.

After "Rock Around the Clock", I was a musician.

This isn't to say I never did anything music-related before that. My brothers and I had been singing, in unison and in harmony, for as long as I can remember. We used to sing along with the radio and our records in our high-pitched squeaky voices, and we liked singing the hymns at church. One year for Christmas, Mrs. Gorman bought us all ukuleles. They were a bit of a fad in the early 1950s, and they were perfect musical instruments for us - we could actually hold and maneuver them in our small paws.

Alvin says now, "I've read about other musicians who start writing songs from the second they pick up an instrument. Not us, though. We'd just pick up a ukulele and try to play a song we heard on the radio. 'Hearts of Stone' or 'Come on-a My House' or something. It wasn't much to start with, but we did get pretty good at figuring out the basic chord progressions."

It wasn't until I got the drum set that I got serious about music, and my obsession seemed to ignite a flame in my brothers as well. It wasn't like there was a distinct line, though. When the three of us were harmonizing the words to "Aba Daba Honeymoon" while Alvin played ukulele, that just seemed to be us kids fooling around. But when we tried bashing our way through "Rock Around the Clock", with me on drums, and Alvin trying to ape the guitar solo on his ukulele, that somehow seemed more "real" - like we were now actually trying to create music.

I doubt that anybody would have guessed that we would form a musical group together. Not because the idea of a chipmunk music group was far-fetched, really. It's just that people who knew us tended to remark on how different we three were.

Alvin has always been the showboat. From the very beginning, he loved being the center of attention, and would do whatever it took to keep all eyes in his direction. If that meant being good at something, great. But if it meant "acting up", or doing things that might get him in trouble, that was OK with him as well. "I do like to be noticed," Alvin admits. "Even today, if somebody says they like my shirt, or they tell me they bought one of our albums, it totally makes my day." Alvin has always had a way with people, too. It wasn't often that we needed one of us to "face the public", but when we did, Alvin was the go-to guy.

As for Simon, I could just say he's "smart" but that would be a bit like saying that the Pacific Ocean is "wet". He's a genius, and I don't use that term lightly. If he decides he wants to learn about something, he jumps in with both feet and learns everything he possibly can about it. He not only comes up with great ideas, but he gets something of a laser-like focus where he'll doggedly pursue an idea until it becomes reality. Like a lot of really smart folks, he's not all that great at interacting with other people. When he does talk, he has a tendency to use some pretty long words. He says, "It took many years, but I came to the realization that I was both alienating people and failing to adequately communicate with my audience. I eventually learned to modify my speaking habits somewhat, which, in a way, was almost akin to learning a new dialect." Since we interacted with him more than anybody else, Alvin and I got pretty good at figuring out what he was saying from context. We got good enough at it that we sometimes acted as a sort of translator between Simon and other people. As an added bonus, Alvin and I usually got pretty good grades on our English vocabulary tests.

And then there was me. If Alvin was the class clown, and Simon was the straight-A nerd, I was that awkward shy kid that hardly ever spoke. It was bad enough growing up as a rodent in a human world, but I never even seemed to find a little niche to settle into. I'd occasionally manage to get a conversation going with a fellow student, and it seemed to go all right, but I could never seem to parlay that into anything resembling a friendship. That meant the only "friends" I had were basically those I had in common with Alvin (and, to a lesser extent, Simon).

"You were just massively unsure of yourself," Alvin explains. "I think all my friends liked you well enough, but there wasn't a lot to grab hold of. You were so scared to make a mistake that you kept everything bottled up. So you ended up being sort of a non-entity. Pleasant enough, but not really missed when you weren't there." This wasn't too bad as long as I could hang out with Alvin and his friends. But at one point in my adolescence, Alvin was off hanging out with a completely new group of people, and Simon was off doing other things. This left me home by myself an awful lot. But they say a musician with his instrument is never truly alone, and I spent many a weary hour pounding away at my drum set, mastering my craft.

Also, like many awkward and lonely kids, I found alternate "friends".

I was at the drug store one day in 1953, looking at Disney comic books, when a magazine caught my eye. It was called _Astounding Science Fiction,_ and the cover featured a big metal robot, cradling a dead human in its bloody hands. (The same artwork was recycled over twenty years later by Queen, for the cover of their _News of the World_ album.) I glanced inside, secretly hoping to read something a bit gory. Instead, I was immediately hooked by a story called "Belief", which was written by Isaac Asimov. It was about a man who had the power to levitate, but who couldn't get anybody to believe him. After reading a few pages, I dragged my eyes away from the magazine long enough to go to the counter and pay thirty-five cents for it, which was my entire comic book budget for the month. I rushed home, flopped down on my bed, and read the entire magazine cover-to-cover.

It's probably not too surprising that Alvin gave me a hard time about reading that magazine. He laughed and told me science fiction was for "squares". But it might come as a bit of a shock to find out that Simon was equally unimpressed. "I was very dismissive," admits Simon. "And that was completely due to ignorance. I held the prejudiced view that every story featured a strapping young lad in a rocket ship saving a damsel in distress from space monsters. But eventually I gave the magazine a cursory look. The quality varied, of course, but there were plenty of well-written and even intelligent stories within. And it cheered me to see you interested in the written word."

With Simon in my corner, I asked for, and received, a subscription to _Astounding_ for Christmas in 1953. And in 1954, I got a renewal. And another one in 1955. In fact, I still have a subscription to that magazine to this very day. The name has changed (to _Analog_ ) but I still look forward to getting each new issue. Using that subscription as a base, I slowly began building a science fiction book and magazine library. I loved pretty much everything involved with the genre: aliens, time travel, robots. The stories made me think, made me wonder, and almost always made me happy. As a nice side effect, I learned an awful lot through those books and magazines. People who get to know me often come to think that I went to college, but actually, I never did. My only education past high school was through what I picked up from reading.

Then there was my other "friend", which is one that's perhaps even more common among awkward kids than science fiction – food.

Yeah, that's one thing that the cartoons got right. I've always been overweight. And it hasn't been due to laziness. I've stayed somewhat active all my life. The real cause of my extra pounds is my love of food - all kinds of food. Cheese and crackers? Bring it on. Chocolate chip cookies? You betcha. Spaghetti and meatballs? Yes yes yes.

I don't recommend sitting through every single TV show and movie that features me - or, more accurately, a character loosely based on me. But if you did, you'd see Theodore Chipmunk's favorite food changes a lot. Peanuts. Popcorn. Apples. Cheese balls. Frozen waffles. I won't pretend to dislike any of these things (except for frozen waffles - I'm pretty sure that was just part of some promotional tie-in), but only one of the shows got it right. That would be the 1980s cartoon, in which a certain chunky green-clad chipmunk had a special fondness for ice cream.

I sort of remember a time when I wasn't crazy about drumming. I can still recall back to when I wasn't into science fiction. But I cannot remember a time when I didn't like ice cream. I may have been born with a craving for it. Ice cream cones, sundaes, milkshakes - any form of ice cream is OK with this chipmunk. My favorite flavor? No question: butter pecan. It's gotten a bit harder to find, what with all the Cherry Garcias and salted caramels and whatever new flavor they came out with last week. Butter pecan is kind of an "old man" flavor now, but that's OK - I'm an old chipmunk. Give me a scoop of butter pecan in a cup (and a spoon) and you've got one very happy Theodore.

As different as we three brothers are, there has always been one thing that brought us together. Something we all loved, and talked about constantly, and wanted to do more than anything else in the world. Most of you are probably expecting me to tell you that thing was music. But actually, music was a distant second with us back in our youth. The one great passion shared by all three Chipmunks? Baseball.

I don't know why, but from day one, baseball was in our blood. We were fascinated by the game. We almost never went to a professional game as kids, but we'd listen to games on the radio all the time. And if there was some baseball game being played nearby, we'd be there cheering, analyzing, scrutinizing. We never actually played in the neighborhood pickup games with the other kids, but that wasn't really surprising. "Chipmunk bodies aren't built for baseball," says Alvin. "Our arms are too weak to take a vicious swing at a fastball, and our legs are too stubby to outrun an infield hit." But our knowledge of the game did eventually allow us to take part - as umpires.

Our positions were set from the very first game. I was stationed at first base, while Alvin handled both second and third. Simon was at home plate. At first, he stood on a fruit crate to get the proper vantage point to see the pitches, but he eventually got a small step-stool that he used to drag to the games in our wagon. "We of course did not inform Mrs. Gorman," states Simon. "She would never have consented to me willingly placing my bespectacled face in the line of fire for an entire baseball game. Fortunately, although my glasses were knocked off of my face by errant foul tips on a few occasions, there were no major calamities on that front. And yes, there was an occasional comment about the one chipmunk with glasses calling the balls and strikes. But for the most part, the other kids were quietly appreciative."

Our umpiring lasted an entire summer, and the first part of the next...at which point it all came to a sudden halt.

The batter's name was Jeffrey. Jeffrey was a very good hitter, a decent fielder...and an incredible bully. We had never really had a run-in with him before that day. He might have grumbled about a particular pitch once or twice, but either he respected our impartiality, or else he respected the fact that the other kids respected it. On this particular day, he was trying to stretch a single to a double, but then came scurrying back to first when the throw came in faster than he expected. The throw was spot on, he slipped a bit coming back, and the first baseman just barely tagged him out. After I made the call, Jeffrey stood up and started squawking at me, which is something no other player had ever done before. I didn't really respond to him, but I didn't change the call either. Finally, he put his hand to my chest and shoved me hard, knocking me to the ground.

Alvin ran over, with Simon not far behind. "You're out, Jeffrey!" Alvin yelled. "Go sit down!"

Jeffrey defiantly stood with a foot on first base and sneered at Alvin and Simon, while I slowly got to my feet. "And I say I'm safe. What are you mice gonna do about it?"

Simon recalls that he looked over at the other players. "I was observing their faces, attempting to ascertain their thoughts. I wished to determine if they would rally to our side if we continued the confrontation." Simon pauses. "And I did not get that sense at all. Perhaps they were cowed by Jeffrey as well. Perhaps they felt they had to side with the human over the rodents. Whatever the reason, I felt any confrontation was likely to result only in major humiliation and injury on our part. And it was also clear that our authority had been irrevocably compromised. Any player could henceforth simply bully their way through any call that did not suit them."

Simon quietly told Alvin and me to follow him. He walked back to home plate, folded his step stool, placed it in the wagon, and began walking home, as Jeffrey lobbed more insults at our backs.

Alvin remembers that moment all too well. "I was so wound up that I actually thought Simon was going to try walloping Jeffrey with the step stool, even though that wasn't like Simon at all. But instead, he just started walking off the field. I said, 'Wait, where are we going, we can't let him get away with this.' Simon just glanced over at me and said 'He already has'."

"It was a difficult and painful lesson for us," adds Simon. "About the divide between human and rodent, and about the inequities of life."

Thus ended our participation in the neighborhood baseball games, which meant we were stuck playing by ourselves in our backyard. Alvin, Simon and I had made up a baseball-like game that we called PBF - short for "pitch, bat, field". One of us would pitch a tennis ball, another would swing at it with a small bat, and the third would try fielding the ball with a small kid's baseball glove. The batter would get ten pitches, and would get points depending on where he'd hit the ball, and how long it took the fielder to retrieve it. Then we'd rotate positions.

"Simon changed the scoring for the game a lot," says Alvin. "Being all math-y, trying to make it as close to fair as he could."

"In retrospect, it was a poor substitute for the real thing," admits Simon. "But it was better than not playing at all."

When we weren't umpiring baseball, or fake-playing baseball, we were simply being fans of baseball. You could even tell which of our beds was which by the little pennants over them. I don't recall what led us to root for different teams, but that's how it ended up. Alvin is a diehard New York Yankee fan, while Simon, in his own quiet way, cheers for the Chicago Cubs. I started out being a fan of the Brooklyn Dodgers, which was sort of a halfhearted selection at first. But then the team moved to Los Angeles in 1955, right into our neck of the woods, and I became just as obsessed about the team as my brothers were about theirs.

Every Sunday morning, after we had devoured the weekly baseball reporting in the newspaper, Mrs. Gorman had us put on our nicest clothes, and we walked to the little Methodist church three blocks away. We usually sat right up front, so our view wasn't blocked by other parishioners. None of us three really took to religion at all, but we didn't really mind going to church, either. For one thing, as I mentioned before, we got to sing there. And secondly, it was a sermon given at that church about "helping the less fortunate" that led directly to us being adopted by Mrs. Gorman.

Mrs. Gorman was born Helen Inglemann, but we never knew her as anything but Mrs. Gorman. She didn't talk much about her life B.C. (Before Chipmunks) with us, but we knew the basics. She had been married to Artisty Gorman for about a decade before he died in a car accident. With no children and being left pretty well-off, she made the transition from volunteer-happy housewife to full-time volunteer. If there was a charity organization within five miles, you can bet she was involved with it, if not heading it up herself. You would think all of that would be enough to satisfy anyone's "am I helping the less fortunate" self-test, but apparently not Mrs. Gorman's. Which is what led her to cut back on her volunteering a bit, and to set about adopting the three least-adoptable kids she could find – us.

Something has probably struck you about all this - the fact that I'm calling her "Mrs. Gorman". But that's what we always called her, by her request. That sort of gives you some indication what the relationship was like. She was kind and generous, taught us well, gave us a good home, and supported our endeavors. But everything was done with a slight sense of formality. Our last names were never changed to match hers. They remained "Chipmunk". You might say she never really viewed us as "her children". We were more like "these three creatures I'm raising". This may come across as sounding a bit cold and depressing, but it really wasn't. In fact, at the time, it didn't even seem that strange. Mrs. Gorman may have doled out hugs extremely sparingly, but all three of us knew she cared deeply about us.

And what was it like for us before Mrs. Gorman? I wasn't quite three years old when she adopted us, so I really couldn't tell you. I have some really vague memories. Eating a cracker at a rickety wooden table, playing with green and yellow blocks, stuff like that. And no, we never searched for our birth parents. That was mainly Simon's idea. He says, "Rodent females who give up their children for adoption rarely have pleasant backstories. In addition, I was worried how the information might alter our sibling dynamic. For example, what if we discovered that you and I were biologically related, for example, but that Alvin was not? I know that many adopted people do not share my sentiments, but I genuinely felt comfortable simply not knowing about our birth family."

Our lives in the Gorman household probably weren't too different from those of most of our human peers. Every morning, we got up and went to school, although the other students tended to look askance at us until they got to know us better (and some never bothered making the attempt). Then we came home and did chores around the house for our nickel-and-dime allowances.

It would have been easy for Mrs. Gorman to either say "well, you're too small to help", or, at the other extreme, just yell at us to get things done. But that wasn't how she did things. She would just say, "Think about it, boys." And it fell to us to figure out how to do these chores despite our small stature. Which was why we kept an old fruit crate next to the kitchen sink, so we could push it into place to stand on when it was time to do the dishes. Or why we put a small toy wagon next to the laundry room, so we could haul the folded clean laundry back to our room.

One thing that was different for us chipmunks was our weekly elocution classes. Chipmunks and other rodents do have a tendency to talk fast, and it can be difficult for humans to understand us. So Mrs. Gorman sent us off to these classes once a week for three years. None of us looked forward to going, as Mrs. Klingensmith was something of a taskmaster. Even now, when speaking to someone new for the first time, I can hear her slightly-German-accented voice echoing in my head. "Stand tall, Theo-dore! Back straight, gut in! Full breath control! Pacing, pacing, pacing!" We gave speeches and oral reports every week, and said phrases like "round and round the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran" so many times that I'm sure all three of us still say them in our sleep. But one can't argue with results, since most people seem to understand us just fine.

In December 1956, Mrs. Gorman managed to charm the folks at our church enough that they let her chipmunks take part in the Christmas pageant. This was the church's big event of the year, with a bake sale, nativity play, the whole nine yards. We got dressed up in our little suits, took the stage halfway through the pageant, and belted out our rendition of "Adeste Fideles". The crowd seemed to enjoy it, but one man near the back was particularly impressed. He approached us after the pageant, while I was trying to get Mrs. Gorman to buy me a lemon bundt cake at the bake sale.

He introduced himself as Ross Bagdasarian, a name that took me a few months to learn how to pronounce. (The last name, not the first name.) He told us that he worked at Liberty Records, and that we might find it easier to call him by his stage name: David Seville. He said he had enjoyed our performance, and he'd liked our voices enough that he thought he might be able to use us on a record at some point.

"The cliché states that the record label representative immediately pressures the artist into signing a lifetime contract," says Simon. "But no such thing occurred with us. Mr. Seville simply wished to establish contact. He had enjoyed our vocal work, but was unsure how best to utilize it. One of his initial ideas was that we might be ideal for high-pitched, ethereal backing vocals for easy listening records. He also mentioned perhaps working on an album specifically for children."

We told him about our little band set-up in the basement, and he came home with us to hear us bash through "Rock Around the Clock". And no, dollar signs didn't appear in his eyes then, either. "I think he said it was 'nice'," says Alvin. "Not really the adjective you want to hear about your rock and roll."

Mrs. Gorman mentioned to Dave that she thought our music making in the basement was getting too loud. So he made a suggestion. He lived about eight blocks away, and he had a mother-in-law apartment over his garage that he was just using for storage. He told us we could set up and play there, where we wouldn't be bothering anybody. And while we played up there, he could get a better feel what we sounded like, and how he might use us. Alvin says, "You'd think Mrs. Gorman would've jumped at that, but she just kept saying 'well, I don't know' in that way of hers. That's when we laid on the charm. We had to promise to do a lot of extra chores, but she finally gave in."

By January 1957, we had set up my drum set at Dave's house, and begun practicing our ukulele-and-drum-based rock and roll there. And on occasion, we would have a guest up in the room as we played. "Dave's son Ross Jr. used to sit in this old chair and watch us play," Alvin remembers. "He was a bit younger than us, but he was a nice kid, so we didn't mind. Sometimes we'd let him shake a tambourine or something, which he liked. It's strange to think that a lot of what followed was forged up in that room."


	3. I'll Admit I Wasn't Very Smart

We had only been playing up above the Bagdasarian garage for about a month when my brothers decided they wanted to take the next step. "Playing the ukulele was fun," says Alvin. "But we wanted to really play rock and roll. And it's kind of tough to rock out while playing a ukulele."

Finding instruments for both of them was a lot more difficult than buying my drum set had been. "There were few sources for rodent-friendly electric guitars in the 1950s," says Simon with a bit of understatement. "And electric basses of any size were not all that prevalent. At that juncture, most rock and roll ensembles used a stand-up acoustic bass. And at the risk of overstating the obvious, a stand-up bass was not a viable option for someone of my height."

That meant Simon had to get creative. "I delved into a quick study of electronics, then made a sojourn to Burt's TV Repair to scrounge up some copper wire. I then began experimenting with one of our ukuleles, in an attempt to amplify it. Once I managed to give that instrument a sound quality that I found acceptable, I requested that Mrs. Gorman purchase a child-sized acoustic guitar. I then proceeded to 'electrify' it, if that is indeed the term, re-using the same parts I had utilized for the ukulele."

Alvin grins when thinking about his first guitar. "It was yellow, and had a little cowboy scene painted on it. Back then, it seemed everything made for kids was western-themed. It was a little weird that I was trying to rock out on this kid's cowboy guitar. But somehow, Simon made it sound pretty good. Not Chuck Berry-level or anything, but come on - it was a toy. I played it a lot those first few years - pretty much wore the damn thing to pieces."

While Alvin began trying to master his new instrument, Simon was having a tougher time building one for himself. "I concluded that the most prudent course of action would be to obtain a four-string tenor guitar, and then attempt to transform it into a bass. This in and of itself took a fair amount of planning. It was imperative that the bridge and tuning machines of the guitar be sturdy enough to withstand the alterations that would be necessary. I had considered and rejected over a dozen guitars, when I found a beautiful blue tenor guitar in a pawn shop. I purchased it, and after another journey to Burt's, I was able to begin transforming it into my first electric bass."

And here's as good a place as any to say this: if you're a major gear head, and are hoping to find out what instruments we've used, just know the answer is nearly always "whatever we could find" and "whatever we could make work". I at least could make do with standard drums, although I did have to arrange them a bit differently so I could reach them easier. But my brothers are basically stuck using whatever they're able to. Alvin says, "I never hung out with musicians all that much, but they seem to talk about 'dream gear' an awful lot. You know, daydreaming about that one insanely perfect guitar that they can't ever afford. And with me... well, whatever it is, even if I can afford it, I can't play it. If it's standard size, it's too big. I had to just resign myself to always using kid's guitars."

Soon after Alvin and Simon got their instruments built, we had a schedule in place. We would ride our bikes over to the Bagdasarian house and play for an hour or two after school on Wednesdays, and for a somewhat longer period on Saturday afternoons. A lot of the times, we wouldn't run into anybody from the Bagdasarian household while we were there. We'd just go in, play and then leave.

As we played more and more, our repertoire of cover versions began growing. And we found ourselves mainly drawn towards instrumentals. "This does run counter to our reputation as vocal performers," says Simon, "But with our instruments, we could achieve a reasonable facsimile of the songs we were performing. But the moment we added vocals, that facsimile fell apart. To put it a bit more crassly, Alvin might be able to play somewhat like Duane Eddy, but he could never sing anything near like Elvis Presley."

"We taught ourselves most of the instrumental hits of the day," adds Alvin. "There were tons of them back then. We also tried writing a few of our own. A lot of the rock and roll instrumentals just had simple I-IV-V chord progressions, so we wrote a couple that followed that form. Just learning the ropes. We never were trendsetters, really, especially back then."

Ross Bagdasarian, under the name David Seville, had already released a few singles and albums by that point. But he was mainly in demand as a songwriter. It was around that time that we found out that he had written "Come on-a My House" for Rosemary Clooney, and our opinion of him shot through the roof. Not only had that been a number one hit several years before, but it was something like a G-rated sex fantasy. "Rosemary was singing about fruit and Easter eggs," says Alvin, "and that's all we noticed most when we were kids. But once we hit adolescence, when we'd hear her sing 'I'm gonna give you everything', we all were like 'oh! now I get it!'."

Early in 1958, Dave began writing a song about a guy looking to get some advice on love. My memory's a bit fuzzy, but I think the original version had the guy consulting a yogi. You know, climbing a mountain in some Asian country to talk to the bearded guy at the summit. At some point while writing this song, Dave changed the yogi to a witch doctor. I don't recall how his original draft of the song went, but at some point, Dave stumbled onto a nonsense phrase: "Oo ee oo ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang". I heard him singing that line a few times while walking through his house, as he tried to finish the verses. And it apparently managed to worm its way into my brain.

One Saturday, Simon and I were getting set up in that apartment above Dave's garage, waiting for Alvin to show up. We had just started fooling around with a basic bass-and-drum shuffle when Dave walked in. He looked kind of unhappy, and Simon asked him what was wrong. Dave told us he had spent the previous day at the studio recording "Witch Doctor", and it just hadn't come out the way he wanted. He didn't mention this to us at the time, but apparently he had tried to sing the witch doctor's lines himself. But even he could tell that that wasn't what the song needed.

I piped up, "That's the song with the fun part in it, right?", singing a quick "oo ee oo ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang". I wasn't showing off or anything by singing that line. I was just a kid, really, and you know how excited kids can get when they can do something like that correctly.

Dave stopped and stared at me. Stared through me, actually. I had never seen that look before that moment, but I began to see it more and more as time went on. It was the look of a brain working the magic. Of pieces falling into place. Of creativity at work. And what happened next was something of a miracle.

Dave asked me if I would go into the studio the next day to sing on the record.

The miracle was that Alvin happened to be running late that afternoon. Had Alvin been there, I can guarantee that Dave would have asked him to do it. He was the lead voice in our trio, after all. But since he wasn't there, and since I obviously already knew the line, Dave asked me.

I of course excitedly agreed, and Dave explained how things would work. "I'll have Liberty sign you to a standard one-side deal. That'll be a flat fee of five dollars." That was certainly more than the allowance I was making washing dishes and folding laundry, so I nodded my head. "I'll bring the contract with me when I come to pick you up tomorrow. As your legal guardian, Mrs. Gorman will have to sign that for you."

Might I examine the contract before he signs?" piped up Simon.

Dave looked over at Simon and smiled, a bit condescendingly. "Of course, Simon." He turned back to me, and added that he expected me to be on my best behavior at the recording studio. "Be extremely polite to everybody, especially to the people in charge. And whatever you do, don't touch anything unless I say it's OK. The equipment in there is worth thousands of dollars, and I can't afford to have you wrecking anything."

"I'll be extra careful," I promised.

"Good. And make sure you get to bed early tonight - you have a big day ahead of you."

"OK. And thanks!" Dave left, and Simon and I got to talking. We were finally going to be recording! OK, it was just going to be me, but hey, it was a first step. I promised Simon that I'd pay close attention to everything, and report everything back to him.

Here's something I have in common with a lot of rodents. Whenever I get really excited, I literally start shivering in place, and my feet start to stamp of their own accord. I don't remember what my feet were doing, but I was definitely shivering when I entered the studio the next day. I tried to calm down by wandering around and looking at all the equipment and instruments. I did it slowly with my front paws clasped behind my back, so I wouldn't accidentally knock anything over. I felt several people giving me a look as I did so. I obviously never liked when that happened, but I had gotten sort of used to it. After all, a lot of people had never seen a rodent before. We're almost exclusively concentrated in the big cities in America, and even there, we're not all that common. Seeing a three-foot beaver or squirrel wearing clothes for the first time can be a little unnerving, and I probably looked especially strange in my little green cowboy shirt, scooting around in that big studio with my front paws behind me, shivering.

One of the musicians was very nice, though. If I remember correctly, she was the only woman in the room. She was holding her saxophone in her lap and talking to the guy sitting next to her when I toddled up. She turned to me, smiled, and said "Why, hello, youngster."

I was happy to hear a friendly voice, so I beamed a smile at her. "Hi!" I chirped back. "My name is Theodore. Theodore Chipmunk. What's your name?"

She laughed and said, "Hello, Theodore. I'm Jean. Jean Moore."

I bowed - Mrs. Gorman had taught us not to offer our paw to people, as it tended to make them uncomfortable. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Moore. Do you play the saxophone? I love the saxophone!" This was about half politeness and half truth. I actually loved all instruments, especially the larger ones I knew I'd never be able to play.

Jean laughed again. "Yes, Theodore. I play the saxophone. You'll probably get to hear me play it if you stick around for a while."

"I will!" I saw that Dave had finished talking to the engineer, and now he was giving me one of those looks. I decided to cut my visit short. "Well, goodbye, Miss Moore!" I waved and scurried back towards Dave.

"What was all that?"

"I was talking to Miss Moore. She's nice."

"Theodore, don't bother the musicians. They're working." This cheesed me off a bit. I was there to sing, so wasn't I working, too? But I decided against saying anything.

Dave indicated a wooden chair that he had set in front of a microphone. I clambered up onto the chair and stood on it, which put the microphone at the right height. But I had to lean over the edge of the chair a bit to get near the microphone, which worried me. I didn't like the idea of losing my balance and falling forward - Dave's warning on how expensive the equipment was was still bouncing through my brain. I climbed back down off the chair, turned it 90 degrees counterclockwise, then climbed back onto it. This allowed me to steady myself a bit by keeping my right paw on the chair back. I looked over at Dave, who had taken his place in front of the other microphone, and grinned. Dave just sort of rolled his eyes back at me.

"I've marked your choruses," he said, pointing to the music sheet set up next to me. "One, two, three, four, six, and eight on through the fade. I take the fifth and seventh solo."

"Righty-o."

Dave sighed. He was looking like maybe this wasn't such a good idea anymore. But he cleared his throat and addressed the musicians. "Uh, everybody, this is Theodore." I waved excitedly. "We're going to try a couple takes with him." There was some scattered conversation and laughter, but it died down pretty quickly.

The engineer pointed at me, and Dave said "OK, Sparks wants to check your microphone levels. Sing something for him."

I nodded and started singing the first thing that came to mind - "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". During the "up above the world so high" part, I glanced over at the musicians. Some looked bored, some looked a little uncomfortable, but Jean gave me a bit of a smile. Dave interrupted the start of my second verse by saying "OK, that's enough, Theodore. He's got it now." I stopped suddenly, which felt strange, like I had done something wrong.

Dave then looked over at the Mr. Waronker, the producer, and said "OK, whenever you're set?"

The conductor picked up his baton and quietly counted off the beat. "One...two...one two three..."

Bum bum bum bum, went the musicians. Dave began singing. "I told the witch doctor I was in love with you." Bum bum bum bum. "I told the witch doctor I was in love with you." Bum bum bum bum. "And then the witch doctor, he told me what to do." Dave's eyes got larger, and he glanced over at me. "He said that..."

I pressed my paw against the chair back a bit harder and began to sing. "Oo ee oo ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang, oo ee oo ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang." I didn't look at Dave or the musicians, focusing on the microphone in front of me. As I finished the chorus, I closed my eyes and started bopping my head a bit, getting into the music some more. When Dave finished the second verse, I opened my eyes and jumped in with the chorus again.

As Dave had indicated, I held off on the third chorus, letting Dave sing the first line alone. And it sounded a bit strange. Sort of uninspired. I got a hint at what it must have sounded like the first time he had tried to record it. I joined back in with him on the next chorus, and it sounded a lot better. Much more fun.

At the end, we sang the chorus four or five times in a row, which would give the producer and engineer lots of room to put the fade in. Sometime around the fifth repetition, I heard most of the musicians stop playing, so I stopped singing, too. I looked over at Dave, and he looked back at me. I thought it had sounded great, personally, but did anybody else?

One of the musicians in the back broke the silence. "Holy shit," he said, loud enough for the whole room to hear. Dave shot him a "not in front of the kid" look, but the whole room was breaking up in laughter. I still wasn't sure if it was good laughter or bad laughter until I spied the Mr. Waronker beaming at me.

"You nailed it, kid," he said.

I grinned from ear to ear and said "woo-hoo!" I shot a smile out to Jean, and she gave one back.

"OK." said Dave, now sounding far more confident than he had earlier. "Ready for take two?"

"Honestly, I don't think we need it," said Mr. Waronker.

Dave looked incredulous. "You never say that."

"I'm saying it now. That's the take."

Dave seemed unsure. "Well, one more for safety?"

Mr. Waronker shrugged. "Sure - why not?"

"OK. Safety take, everyone!" We regrouped, and ran through the song once more. And again, it sounded great. It may as well have been a playback of the previous take.

(That said, I'm positive that they released the first take as the single. Listen really closely to a clean copy of the track. Just before the second chorus, you can a very quiet creaking sound. I'm pretty sure that was me shifting my weight slightly on the wooden chair. I never mentioned it to anybody, and apparently nobody ever caught it.)

After that second take had finished, I leaped off the side of the chair and walked up to Dave. "We did it!" I yelled, throwing my arms wide.

"We certainly did," said Dave. He looked happier than I ever recall him looking.

Mr. Waronker walked up to join us. "Well done, Theodore." He pulled Dave aside and started talking to him, too quietly for me to really hear. Several times, they looked over at me and frowned a bit. What? Did I do something wrong? Finally, Mr. Waronker walked back over to me.

"Theodore, I was talking with Ross...um, Dave, I mean. And Dave tells me you like ice cream."

"You bet, Mr Waronker! Especially butter pecan!"

"Well, Theodore, you saved us a lot of time by getting the song done so quickly today, and I want to let you know how much I appreciate that." He pulled a business card and scribbled something on the back. "You can take this card to Henderson's Drug Store on the corner. Good for anything on the menu, any time you go."

I stared at the card in my paws like it was made of gold. Which, to a young and already-overweight chipmunk, it pretty much was. "I...I..."

"Hurry on over, Theodore," he added. "Dave and I will catch up with you shortly."

Dave still looked a bit perplexed, but he added, "Yeah, go on, Theodore."

"OK! Thanks so much, Mr. Waronker!" I was about to scurry out the door, but I made a detour to where Jean was. I waved the business card at her. "Hey, Miss Moore! I got a bonus - free ice cream!"

Jean burst out laughing. "You enjoy that, Theodore."

"I will! Bye!" I skedaddled out the door, just as Mr. Waronker went back into serious conversation with Dave.

But as I dug into my pineapple sundae at Henderson's, I mulled over what that conversation might have been about. Why give me a bonus? Did Mr. Waronker think that Dave hadn't paid me enough? Was five dollars not enough for singing a song? I knew some singers were rich and everything, but those were people like Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. They made movies, and went on TV and stuff. I just sang one line for one song a few times. Five bucks seemed like a lot of money just for that.

When we got home, Alvin was out, but Simon was reading a chemistry textbook. (Simon used to read textbooks for fun all the time.) I asked if he would go up to the tree fort out in the backyard with me. That was a place we used to go when we wanted to talk in private. Once there, I told Simon all about the recording session - how everybody had gone from cynical to excited, and how I had been given the ice cream. Simon immediately looked jealous, so I said "It's good for anything as often as I want, so I can get you something next time we go down."

"Thank you." Simon's jealousy turned to gratitude pretty quickly.

"But Mr. Waronker gave me this after talking to Dave. It seemed kind of strange. And it got me thinking - maybe Dave didn't pay me enough?"

Simon shook his head as he cleaned his glasses. "I am not in any position to answer that with any degree of certainty. I am fairly ignorant in regards to the intricacies of music industry finance. But I'm beginning to think it would behoove me to investigate this situation further."

Anything Simon sets his mind to, he doesn't do by halves, and this was no exception. "I began to spend my spare time studying the economics of the recording business. I found other professional musicians to speak with, as well as a few people who were under contract at other record labels." He began checking out books on entertainment law from the library, and started keeping lengthy but well-organized notes.

A couple weeks after the recording, Dave brought me a copy of the "Witch Doctor" 45. I was a bit saddened to not see "FEATURING THEODORE CHIPMUNK AS THE WITCH DOCTOR" on the label, but that disappointment was overwhelmed by having a copy of my very first record in my paws. I of course immediately played it for Simon and Alvin. Alvin held his nose and giggled, but Simon nodded thoughtfully. "The melody is very insidious," he said. "This may indeed prove to be a very popular record." I couldn't tell if Simon actually liked the record or not, but that was often the way with him.

From that day on, I kept listening to the radio hoping to hear what I considered "my song". Alvin gave me some grief for that. He'd laugh and say, "Nobody's gonna play that dumb thing". And Simon pointed out that it sometimes took months for a record to make its way from the recording studio to the radio. So I stopped saying I was listening to the radio for that reason. I kept listening for it, of course - I just didn't say that's why I was listening so much.

Finally, one day, I was home alone doing my homework with the radio, and suddenly, I heard "Witch Doctor" playing. The disk jockey didn't announce it or anything - it was just suddenly on. I just stared at the radio, hearing Dave's voice, and then my voice, coming through that little metal speaker. It was a feeling that's hard to put into words, even half a century on.

I excitedly told Alvin and Simon about it when they got home. Simon congratulated me, but Alvin suggested I was making the whole thing up. "Are you calling me a fibber?" I threatened, and Simon had to calm us both down or else we would've been wrestling on the floor. Luckily, the station played the song again later that evening. Simon congratulated me again, but Alvin just stuck his tongue at me.

A couple of weeks later, Simon asked me to meet him back up in the tree fort. Once there, he unfolded a piece of paper. "Brother, your hunch was correct." He pointed to some figures he had written at the bottom of the page. "Your song is already a huge hit. It has only been commercially available for a few weeks, and already it is one of the top selling songs in the country."

This floored me. That little song I sang on? I mean, I'd heard it on the radio a few times, and that was really exciting. But I sort of assumed that that was as far as it had gotten. It was as popular as everything else I was hearing on the radio? "Catch a Falling Star" by Perry Como? "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands" by Laurie London? "Wear Your Ring Around My Neck" by Elvis Presley?

Wait - my song was competing with Elvis Presley?

"Gosh," I said, dumbfounded.

Simon went on. "I would say with some degree of confidence that the record will sell in the

neighborhood of one million copies." A million? That number didn't really mean much to me. It was just something I said when I meant "a lot". Pointing to the bottom of the page, Simon continued, "A well-negotiated deal would pay the singer half a cent royalty for each single sold. Had we arranged for that rate for you, this record would be netting you in the neighborhood of five thousand dollars."

Five thousand? We were going to have to eat a lot of Henderson's ice cream to reach that figure. I sat there stunned for a minute, then finally asked Simon a question.

"Simon? Does this mean Dave...well, did he...cheat me?"

Simon set his jaw. "I do not believe the word 'cheat' would be entirely accurate in this instance. But Dave certainly might have offered you a percentage of the profits, or at least some bonus financial compensation now that the record is proving to be a success. And...he has chosen not to do so. If you ask me what that means, I would say that that indicates...well, I believe it would be safe to say that he is mainly looking out for himself."

"Is that why Mr. Waronker gave me the ice cream? Because he felt bad about it?"

There was a pause while Simon mulled over how to answer me. "I cannot imagine that the vice-president of the label would attempt to make up the difference in ice cream. Surely he might have arranged a more direct form of renumeration. It is my hypothesis that Mr. Waronker used the ice cream in an attempt to purchase something from you - your loyalty."

"My loyalty? What do you mean?"

"Consider. You provided your vocals, and you were paid five dollars renumeration. This fulfilled the terms of the contract They no longer owe you anything..."

"I know," I said glumly, thinking of the million copies Simon had mentioned.

Simon pressed on. "...but, perhaps more importantly, you no longer owe them anything."

"Why would I owe them anything?"

"Because musicians often sign long-term deals with record labels. Not just for one song, but many songs, and for many years. And they are bound by those terms for the duration of the contract." Simon pointed at me with his pencil. "You, brother, have been most fortunate. Dave most likely assumed that this would be a one-off deal, and you would not be singing lead again. Given the success of 'Witch Doctor', Liberty will assuredly wish to record more songs with a similar sound...and the vocalist that truly made the song unique is no longer signed to the label."

I let that sink in for a second. I hadn't really considered what might come next, since I had been busy enjoying the moment. I thought about Dave, and the idea that he would probably try to sign me for five-dollars-a-song again. "Well, does this mean...Dave doesn't care about us? At all?"

Simon sighed. "He probably does care, Theodore. To some degree. But he did not offer us a place to practice in his home because he cares deeply about us. He merely saw a potential business opportunity, and he chose to take advantage of it. I think it is important that we not lose sight of that. The key thing is that we must also regard this as a business opportunity, and take advantage of it, as well." He leaned closer to me. "Dave has a lawyer in his corner, to ensure that he at least gets his fair share on all his endeavors. We have no such person. It is imperative that someone look after our best interests, financially, as well."

"Can we ask Dave's lawyer to do that?"

"I had considered that. But I am not certain that that would be prudent. Mr. Judkins appears to be on very good terms with Dave. It is my impression that he would not work quite so hard on our behalf." Simon pursed his lips and looked off into the distance. "I have already learned a great deal about this business..." He trailed off, then Simon suddenly sat up straighter and looked me directly in the eye. "Theodore, do you trust me?"

I stared back at him. "Of course."

"Do you trust me more than you trust David Seville?"

That question I had to mull over for a second, but I nodded my head. "Yes. I trust you."

"Good. Promise me this one thing. Do not allow Mrs. Gorman to sign anything else on our behalf until I read it over. Please allow me to handle the finances from this moment forward."

And from that day forward, Simon was my manager. He never called himself that, and I never called him that. But that's what he was. If a contract was placed in front of me, or if somebody started talking finances, I'd just say, "You'll have to talk to Simon." Simon would read everything over, explain the terms to me, mention the potential hazards contained within, and then give his advice on whether I should sign. From the very beginning, I always trusted his judgment.

And not long after that meeting in the treehouse, that trust began to pay dividends.


	4. The Things We Want, We Haven't Got

I had been watching musical artists perform on TV for as long as I can remember. Any time a variety show had a singer on, even one I wasn't really a fan of, I'd stop whatever I was doing and watch. My brothers and I had figured out pretty quickly that most of the performances we saw were lip-synched...or "faked", as we called it back then. And when "Witch Doctor" became a hit, I assumed (correctly) that Dave would start getting offers to (fake-) perform it on TV. But I also sort of assumed that he was going to ask me to do those performances with him. Why wouldn't he? He had been grooming us to be musical performers, and now one of us had sung on a hit song with him, singing the catchiest part of the song. I imagined the two of us in front of the cameras, miming the song together...maybe with me in a witch doctor costume!

But that never happened. Once in a while, there would be some puppet or something on TV flapping its mouth to my lines. But usually Dave would just appear alone, with my lines going by without remark. He got to perform on The Ed Sullivan Show, which was a huge deal at the time. He dressed in a suit with a pith helmet, and they had this dumb special effect going where he appeared to make a woman turn upside-down and right-side-up, over and over. Once in a while, I'll watch the clip on YouTube and wonder how much better it would've been with a witch doctor chipmunk involved.

One night, Simon and I were watching Dave mime the song on yet another TV show. When that segment ended, I complained, "How come I don't get to be on there with Dave?"

Instead of answering, Simon got up and left the room. He came back with a few of my 45rpm records. He handed me one - "Dance With Me Henry (Wallflower)" by Georgia Gibbs. "Who is the man who sings the opening line of this song?" Simon asked me.

"Um...I don't know. Who?"

Instead of answering, he handed me another record - "Topsy" by Cozy Cole, one of my favorites. "Who plays the organ on this record?"

I just shrugged.

"Now bring to mind your recording session with Mr. Seville. Consider all the musicians, as well as all of the people behind the scenes who helped create that record." I though about that for a second, then Simon asked, "And how many of them are mentioned by name on the record label?"

"Just Dave. And the producer."

"This is exceptionally commonplace," explained Simon. "It takes many people to create a record, but only one or two names appear on the label." Simon indicated the TV. "Or on television."

I stared at my records for a minute while I gave it some thought. "That doesn't seem fair," I mumbled.

"This appears to be a recent development," said Simon. "You presumably did not consider it unfair to the organist on 'Topsy' until just now." I must have looked miserable after he said that, because Simon suddenly smiled a bit. "It is not my intention to depress you, brother. I simply want you to be cognizant of how the mind works." He tapped his head for emphasis. "The mind desires a simple name to attach to a recorded work. It does not matter if the name is the singer's real name...or even if the proffered name is not on the record at all."

I thought about that for a bit, then nodded. Simon was right, as he usually was.

He turned the TV off, then sat down next to me. "I am elucidating on this topic because I believe the point is a critical one." He indicated the stack of records he had brought out. "Very few people get to have their names memorialized upon a record label. Is that the one thing you would say that you truly desire?"

I closed my eyes and thought. What _did_ I want? Did I want my name on record labels? Well, yeah, that'd be neat - seeing "Theodore Chipmunk" in silver type on a turquoise Liberty Record label. But was that what I was really after? I let my wander a bit more. I thought back to my recording session, and I was reminded of Miss Moore. She played the saxophone on that song, and she didn't get any credit for it. How many other records did she play on? Her name would probably never appear on a record label. But she kept coming to play on sessions. And if appearances were any indication, it looked like she loved doing it. She loved making music.

Just like I did.

I loved getting to record with all of those musicians. And all the times playing drums. And just harmonizing with Alvin and Simon. If I had to choose between making music and anything else, I'd probably choose making music every time.

Finally, I opened my eyes, and stared at Simon. "No. What I desire is...I want to make music."

Simon grinned, stood up, and left the room with my records. We never really talked about it again, but the conversation stayed in my mind. Not just for a while, but permanently. When things went wrong, when problems arose, when labels and managers and bandmates started plotting and maneuvering and fighting, I held fast to what I had said that night in front of the switched-off TV: "I want to make music."

Not surprisingly, Liberty Records was very eager for a follow-up to "Witch Doctor", and they wanted it as soon as possible. So in between his TV appearances, Dave sat down and tried to write another song. Since "Witch Doctor" was sort of a fluke, it's a bit surprising that he didn't follow the exact same template. He could have written something like "The Witch Doctor Returns", but he didn't. It's possible that Dave didn't feel like playing foil to a witch doctor again. Maybe he just felt an artistic itch to try something different. Or maybe he just couldn't come up with anything along those lines.

Whatever the reason, Dave eventually came up with a song called "The Bird on My Head". In the lyrics, Dave and the bird are simply standing around bemoaning their respective lots in life. Dave has no girlfriend, the bird has no nest, and so forth. Now that I think about it, it was a lot like the song "Ain't Got No Home" by Clarence "Frogman" Henry that had come out a few years previous. The main difference was that Clarence sang as both himself and the frog on his record. (And he sang as a girl, to boot.) On Dave's record, the bird was going to be sung by a chipmunk.

While Dave was finishing up writing the song, I had an idea. Instead of having Simon standing next to me, coaching me on my contract, why not ask Dave if Simon could sing this one himself? That way, Simon could navigate through the contract negotiations directly. Simon thought this was an excellent idea, so I approached Dave about it. "I think Simon should have a turn next," was how I put it. Dave said that was very nice of me, and he added that having a different high-pitched voice for this record would probably be a good idea. He asked me to come along to the session in case Simon didn't work out, and I had no trouble saying yes to that.

About a week later, Dave drove to our place to take Simon and me to Liberty Studios for the recording session. And just like the last time, he first asked Mrs. Gorman to sign a contract. I watched nervously as she once more handed the one-page contract to Simon. Simon picked up the contract and read it over carefully. Then he picked up a pen and started writing. Dave didn't notice at first. But as the sound of the pen scratching across the contract continued, Dave looked over at Simon with some confusion.

"Simon, Mrs. Gorman just needs to sign at the bottom," Dave repeated.

Simon held up a finger of his right paw, indicating Dave to wait. Meanwhile, he kept up the writing with the pen in his left paw. Finally, he stopped and put the pen down. He read over what he had written, then handed the paper back to Dave.

Dave looked at the contract, now with a lot of small but legible printing in the margins. "What's all this?"

"Alterations and addenda."

Dave scrunched up his eyes and started reading. After a minute or so, he stopped and looked down at Simon. "You can't be serious."

Simon looked at Dave evenly. "Why would I not be serious?"

"This isn't our standard one-record deal."

"Perhaps I am not your standard one-record deal singer," countered Simon.

Dave turned to me. "Theodore..." he began.

I shook my head and pointed to the contract. "This is the deal we want," I said . "Any of us."

Dave next looked at Mrs. Gorman, who simply smiled a bit. "The chipmunks know more about these contracts than I do. I'll sign only what they ask me to sign."

"Do you believe the terms to be unfair?" asked Simon.

"They seem a little...excessive." Dave sounded a bit condescending.

"How much were you paid for performing on 'Witch Doctor'?"

"Come on, Simon. You know I handled the bulk of that song."

"Do you not feel that Theodore's contribution was essential to the success of that particular record?"

Dave drummed his fingers on the table for a few seconds, then shook his head. "I'll have to get approval on this," he mumbled. He had Mrs. Gorman sign the contract, then took us out to the car. On the ride over, I glanced over at Simon, who gave me a quick reassuring smile. I nodded in return - he apparently had anticipated this happening, and I was determined not to mess it up by saying anything.

As soon as we got to the studio, Dave had us take a seat in a small room. A few minutes later, Mr. Waronker entered the room. "Simon? I'm Mr. Waronker, co-founder of Liberty." He shook Simon's paw gravely, then said, "Dave here says you'd like to make a few changes to our standard contract." Simon simply waved his paw towards the paper on the table. Mr. Waronker picked it up and read it, frowning. He then put the paper down and looked off in the distance for a moment. Finally, he turned to face Simon again.

"That's a fair chunk of change you're asking for," he said uncertainly.

"Based solely on its performance," clarified Simon. "Half a cent per record sold with renumeration for the first five thousand records up front."

"It still seems kind of high."

Simon set his jaw. "I would hazard to say that we are worth it," he said confidently, subtly including me back into the negotiations.

Mr. Waronker looked at Simon for a minute, then picked up the pen and signed the bottom of the contract. He glanced over at Dave and muttered something unintelligible before walking out the door.

After that little bout of drama, the recording itself was somewhat muted. I got to introduce Simon to Ms. Moore, but after that, the recording session began. Simon stood on the same chair that I had, and even sang "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" for his mic check. (To this day, we both still use that song to check our mic levels. Old habits die hard.) And although Simon sang his lines quite well, they ended up doing five takes. One or two were due to flubbed notes, but I think Mr. Waronker kept asking for additional takes because he was hoping for that magic "thing". That sense of excitement we had had after the first take of "Witch Doctor".

To be honest, I don't think they would've gotten it even if they had recorded all day. During the last take, I finally decided that the song just wasn't that great. It had some pretty good lyrics, and everybody sang and performed it well. But it didn't have that killer hook that "Witch Doctor" did. As such, it was just this mildly pleasant song with a human and a high-pitched voice trading lines.

Time proved that my basic hunch about the song was correct. "Witch Doctor" had hit number one on the Billboard singles chart and had stuck around the top ten for three months. "The Bird on My Head" eventually peaked at number thirty-four, fell off the chart in a month, and was utterly forgotten a year later. Simon still got a good payday out of it - far more than I had made - but it was still quite a disappointment after the success of "Witch Doctor".

The song might have charted a bit higher just for the basic human/chipmunk voice dynamic it contained, but another song came along and stole its thunder. A song that, ironically, was recorded on the exact same day as "The Bird On My Head". And it featured the vocals of yet another chipmunk.

It had started a week previous to the "Bird on My Head" recording date. The phone rang at our place, and Alvin happened to be the one who answered.

"The guy on the line was Neely Plumb, a music arranger," Alvin explains. "No idea how he got our number." He was working on a song with country singer Sheb Wooley, and he thought the song would work well with the addition of "that high-pitched singer from that witch doctor song". Mr. Plumb was wondering if maybe that singer would be interested...?

"I should've said 'Actually, that was Theodore'. Or 'You'll have to talk to Dave Seville'. But I was steamed at you two. You had already sung on a big hit, and then you'd set it set up so Simon was going to go sing on the next one. I thought that was totally unfair. How come you two were getting to do all the singing? Wasn't I the lead singer of the group? I decided, hey, this is my chance to do some singing of my own. So I just told Mr. Plumb, 'sure, I'd be glad to,' as if I were the one who sang on 'Witch Doctor'. Never lied about it, but never corrected that misconception of theirs, either. I knew what day you and Simon were headed to the studio, so I asked if we could record on that day. Oh, and if I could possibly get a ride to the recording session...?"

Soon after Dave took Simon and me to record "Bird", Alvin had Mrs. Gorman sign a one-song contract for him for twenty dollars (making me officially the cheapest chipmunk). And while Simon was arguing with Mr. Waronker, Alvin was getting driven to a recording studio for MGM. He rehearsed his lines a few times, and then stood next to a low microphone to record his five lines.

"I wouldn't eat you 'cause you're so tough."

"I want to get a job in a rock and roll band."

"A wop bop a loola bop a loo bam boom."

"I like short shorts!"

"...te-quil-a."

Alvin says it took six or seven takes. "Sheb had trouble with that 'bless my soul, rock and roll' bit, and I botched the 'a wop bop' line once. But everybody seemed pretty happy with the last take. I got paid cash at the end of the session, got a ride home, and I figured no one was the wiser."

A few weeks later, we were messing around at home, with our small radio playing in the background. None of us heard the DJ announce it, but once "The Purple People Eater" started, Alvin perked up and started dancing around the room, singing Sheb's lyrics. I figured Alvin had just heard this song a few times, and had already memorized the lyrics. But then Alvin got up close to me and mimed the "I wouldn't eat you 'cause you're so tough" line in a rather mocking way.

And my jaw hit the floor. There was no mistaking that voice - that was Alvin singing on that record.

Simon and I stood speechless as Alvin kept bouncing around the room, lip-synching his own lines in the song, right down to the last "te-qui-la". When it ended, Alvin stood with his hands crossed over his chest, with a "what do you think of that" look on his face.

As the next song began, Simon walked over and snapped off the radio. He also crossed his arms, and said "So? Would you care to explain?"

Alvin grinned and tapped his chest. "I've got a secret," he said, mimicking the popular TV game show of the time.

"Your secret was just broadcast to the greater Los Angeles area," Simon pointed out. "And if I might prognosticate, its influence will not be confined to that area for long."

Alvin suddenly dropped the coy act, and looked almost hopeful. "You really like it? You think it's gonna be a hit?"

"I would say that that is probable," admitted Simon, and Alvin tapped his foot excitedly. "And how do you think David Seville will react upon hearing it?"

Alvin made a rude sound with his mouth. "Dave. Who cares what he thinks? You and Theodore keep skipping off to the studio to record without me, so why shouldn't I look after myself?"

I said, "Alvin, we're trying to get this recording thing going for all of us."

"Riiight," said Alvin cynically.

Simon said, "Perhaps a query would throw the situation in relief. What was your remuneration for recording that particular record?"

"What'd they pay me? Twenty smackers." Alvin looked over at us with a smug grin. "More than double YOUR paydays. Up front, too."

"Actually," said Simon, sounding just as smug. "My initial compensation was twenty-five dollars. In addition, I negotiated a rate of half a penny per single and a quarter penny per album sold."

Alvin laughed. "Half a penny! Big deal!"

Simon pressed on. "Had Theodore negotiated an identical contract for his record, his payment would have been, at the bare minimum, five thousand dollars."

Suddenly Alvin stopped laughing. "...what?"

"Simple mathematics. A half of a penny is indeed an insignificant sum. But a million half-pennies is not an insignificant amount at all."

"You're telling me you're going to be paid five thousand dollars for singing your dumb bird song?"

Simon shook his head. "Only if it sells a million copies. Which it will not. But even if it sells only a tenth of that quantity, I will be owed five hundred dollars. This before any consideration is given to LP sales."

"That's why I suggested Simon for the song," I explained, trying to keep this conversation from becoming a battle of the paychecks. "He's read up on all this stuff, and I knew he could get a better deal than I did."

Alvin looked over at Simon, whom nodded. Grinning, Alvin said, "Then we're gonna be rich!"

"Perhaps," said Simon. "If we are able to stay in the good graces of Liberty Records. Let us hope that David Seville does not take too unkindly to your moonlighting activities."

"Unkindly" may have been the understatement of 1958.

Dave first heard about the song from Mr. Waronker, who angrily asked him why "your rodents were making money for other labels". "The Bird on My Head" hadn't even come out yet, and another label had already swiped the gimmick. The folks at Liberty decided to hold off on releasing the single until "Purple People Eater" had run its course. That ended up being a much longer time than anyone would've guessed, as the record hit number one, and stayed there for six weeks.

Dave left that meeting with Mr. Waronker, came by our house, and proceeded to yell at all three of us as we stood on our front porch. I'd seen Dave a bit angry before, but I'd never seen anything like this. He kept using the word "betrayal", and he announced he was terminating our business relationship. He drove us back to his place, and had us load our instruments into the back of his car. Then he drove us back to Mrs. Gorman's house, still angrily telling us that we had "blown everything". And by the time he had dumped us off on the sidewalk, I was pretty much convinced that we had.

But as Dave drove off, Simon picked up my bass drum. "Come. We will re-establish our practice area in the basement."

We all grabbed something, and began setting things up just like they had been a couple of years before. Once we had finished, I sat behind my kit. I counted off a beat, and soon the basement was filled with the strains of "Let's Do the Chipmunk Rock". And as the last guitar chord faded away, I felt better. We still had our music, and we still had each other. Alvin said he was sorry, but Simon admitted we were just as much to blame - we should have let him know what we were doing.

We sat in the basement for the next hour or two, discussing what to do next. I didn't like the fact that we had been recording songs as individuals. We sounded great as a group, musically and vocally. Why not try to sell that? Simon agreed, but pointed out that we now had two smash singles featuring our solo vocals - certainly that would be a selling point?

The three of us finally decided on a plan. We'd re-arrange our three vocal numbers - "Witch Doctor", "The Bird on My Head" and "Purple People Eater" - so we could perform them as a trio. We'd add those songs to our repertoire of instrumentals that we had been playing, and then see if we could score a gig as a live band. Getting a regular gig would presumably help push us along musically, and eventually a label might become interested in signing us. And if we could write a few originals that highlighted our vocals in the meantime, that'd be even better.

In the following weeks, we three rehearsed with a single-minded devotion. School had just let out for the summer, so we could focus all of our time and energy into our music. We had to make sure to finish practicing by 9 pm, because that's when Mrs. Gorman went to bed. After that time, we sat around in our room, trading ideas and jotting down notes.

Alvin and Simon pooled together the cash they made from their recordings, and financed a quick private recording for us. We busted through "Let's Do the Chipmunk Rock" and a revamped "Witch Doctor" in about ten minutes total, which was pretty good proof that all that rehearsing was paying off. We then had fifty 45s pressed up, and carefully printed THE CHIPMUNKS on the blank labels of each one. We also added "For booking information, contact Simon at (phone number)" on one side. (By the way, if you spot a copy of this 45 at the flea market, grab it. One sold on eBay for seven hundred dollars a few years back.) Then we hit the nearby night clubs, looking to see if we could get some bookings.

A few weeks later, we made our club debut. You'd think I'd remember the name of the place, since it was our very first live gig and all. But for some reason, none of us do. It was just a little bar, and we were set up playing off in this dark corner. We were booked to play three sets a night, Wednesday through Sunday.

Playing live in a bar was a little different from how I thought it would be. I was expecting people would become huge fans from the moment they heard us play, and that just wasn't the case. We got our share of applause, and usually there was a good deal of dancing. But hardly anybody came to talk to us between our sets. We were just there to entertain people on their night out, and that was all. It took me a bit of time to adjust my way of thinking, but pretty soon, I had learned to enjoy just being "the night's entertainment". The sets went well, and although we weren't packing the place, the crowds seemed to enjoy our music.

But our engagement hit a snag early on. Simon remembers, "I went to the venue to collect our earnings after the first week, but the owner attempted to forestall the payment. 'Let's give it one more week, and see how it goes,' was what he said. I was unsure how to respond, so I simply agreed. He presumably felt we were naïve enough to continue playing without being compensated. But I immediately resumed my efforts to secure another location for our performances. And by Wednesday, I had reached an agreement with Pete's, another establishment that was only a short distance away."

Alvin grins when he thinks back to that night. "Thanks to the cartoons, people always assume I'm the evil one of the group. But this move was totally Simon's idea. We played our first set at the old place, and maybe two songs of the second. Just up until the time it was starting to get crowded. Then he has me go on mic to announce that since the owner hadn't paid us, we would be relocating to Pete's...like, right then and there!" We tore everything down, and loaded it into a car that Pete's had sent over, while everybody just sort of stared. The guy drove us down to Pete's, we set up, and played two sets to kick off our residency there.

One of the few things I've saved from those days is a list I had scrawled onto a piece of Pete's stationery. It's not a set list - just a list of all the songs we had "mastered", or at least could fumble through in front of an audience. We'd just take our places, one of us would call out a song from that list, and away we'd go. Some songs we played at least twice a night - "Honky Tonk" and "Tequila" were both favorites. ("I hated doing 'Tequila' without the sax part," adds Alvin, "but everyone wanted to hear it back then.") A few I'd completely forgotten we had ever performed, like the theme from "Around the World in 80 Days". And there are two songs on the list that I don't recognize at all. I'm assuming both "Chitter Chatter" and "Rodent Rock" were instrumental originals that weren't good enough to keep in the sets, or even remember several decades later.

Nearly all the songs were instrumentals, but we'd close each set with one of our three vocal numbers - "Bird on My Head", "Witch Doctor", and "Purple People Eater". "Bird" didn't last long in the set, though. "Few audience members recognized it, and to be honest, I was not comfortable singing lead," Simon admits. So I suggested we swap it out for "Rock Around the Clock". My brothers agreed to that idea, and a few days later, I was playing my favorite song to close out the first set.

Playing at Pete's went much better than at the first place. We had the same schedule of playing three sets a night, but the owner was a lot nicer, and we were getting paid in a timely fashion. We also got a few nights off a week - sometimes one, sometimes more, depending on who else Pete booked to play that week. We were sort of the "house band", for when they didn't have anything else scheduled. They had a poster up on their wall advertising us. "NIGHTLY - The Chipmunks - the smallest rock-ingest band in town!".

We faced a bit of a hiccup when school started up again in September. We could hardly do three sets a night every night of the week while attending high school. Pete was nice enough to move us to weekends only, but he still had us do fill-in gigs once a month or so when he couldn't find anybody else to play. School on the mornings after those nights was insanely tough, but they were rare enough that I could muddle through.

Come the middle of October, we started discussing what our next move should be. Alvin says, "Our sets were getting pretty tight, and we had even made a few fans. We thought a good original song would make us more attractive to the labels, but we still hadn't written one." I had tried writing one called "There's No Rock and Roll on Mars", about a space alien that comes to Earth to rock out. Simon correctly pointed out that it had almost the same plot line as "Purple People Eater", so I sort of stopped working on it. Back in the fifties, it was almost expected that singers and bands weren't writing their own material. So we assumed labels would be interested in us even though we didn't have our own potential hit ready to go. And as it turned out, one label was interested. They even reached out to us first.

We just didn't expect the label to be Liberty...or the caller to be David Seville.


	5. We've Been Good But We Can't Last

While living at Mrs. Gorman's house, I used to do my homework at the kitchen table. This was partly because Mrs. Gorman liked to keep tabs on us while we did our schoolwork, and partly because, from there, I had easy access to the pantry. I used to eat a cracker or peanut or something whenever I'd get stuck on a problem. Taking a look at me back then, you'd probably assume I was stuck on a problem pretty damn often. (I won't argue that.)

One afternoon in October 1958, I was about halfway through my pre-algebra homework, and the ringing telephone provided the perfect excuse for a break. I jumped off my booster chair, toddled over to the phone, and answered it. Standard phone receivers are kind of a challenge for rodents to use, but we can manage OK if we hold them just right, and speak kind of loudly.

"Gorman residence - this is Theodore."

"Hello, Theodore. This is Dave Seville."

Dave. Honestly, I hadn't expected to hear from him ever again. And especially not so soon after our falling out. I wasn't sure what to say, so I just said "Hello."

"Listen - I want to apologize for what I said...you know, that day."

Just then, Simon walked into the kitchen, and I waved nervously to him. Simon looked over at me inquisitively, and I mouthed the word "Dave" to him. Simon's eyes grew wide behind his glasses, and he held out his paw for the phone receiver. Meanwhile, Dave had kept talking.

"I was just really upset. You and Simon didn't have anything at all to do with what happened, and Alvin...well, Alvin was probably just feeling left out."

"Uh, yeah," I managed to say. "Here - Simon wants to talk to you." I quickly handed the phone off to him like it was a hot potato. Simon let out his breath, set his teeth, and brought the receiver up to his ear.

"Hello, Mr. Seville. This is Simon... yes... yes... no, no hard feelings." Simon said that last part like there were plenty of hard feelings, which I guess there were. "No, I understand... well, currently we have a residency... the venue is named Pete's... three sets of rock and roll a night, Fridays Saturdays and Sundays... no, no label as of yet..."

Suddenly Simon looked even more mistrusting. "With Liberty? Is this in jest?... I suppose. We would be willing to hear your pitch but I cannot promise anything beyond that... of course... yes... you will bring a copy of the contracts with you? And the song? And I may study them at my leisure?... Then yes, we will meet with you... No, we are slated to perform at Pete's that night... I suppose... all right, we will see you then. Goodbye Mr. Seville."

"What was that about?" I asked as Simon hung up the phone.

"I should include Alvin in this conversation," said Simon. "This is where we erred the last time." He called Alvin down from our room, and took us all up to the treehouse. Only once we were all together up there did Simon explain the phone call.

Dave wanted us back. And Liberty did, too. They were willing to sign us to a long-term contract, with "roughly the same terms" as Simon's last deal. And Dave had a song he wanted all three of us to record - together.

"A rock and roll number?" I asked hopefully.

"Mr. Seville did not say. But if Mr. Seville's previous work is any indication, it will most likely be a vocal pop song."

"But one we can sing together," I said. "That'll be keen."

"I knew they'd come crawling back to us." Alvin said, grinning from ear to ear.

"I didn't," I admitted. "Why would Dave call us back, after all of the things he said?"

"I would hazard a guess and state that the relative failure of his most recent single likely prompted him to reconsider the situation," said Simon. "Bird on My Head" hadn't exactly set the charts alight, but Dave's next single "Little Brass Band" had fared even worse. It had barely scraped the bottom of the chart for two weeks. Liberty Records was probably screaming at him to make nice with his chipmunk neighbors, and get them back in the studio.

True to his word, Dave showed up about halfway through out first set at Pete's that Saturday. He sat at a nearby booth with his wife Armen, sipping cocktails and apparently enjoying the music. We were about to start the final song of the set when Alvin pointed out Dave in the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special guest in the audience tonight - Mr. David Seville!" Not everybody at Pete's seemed to recognize the name, but most of the people there clapped anyway. Dave gave them a quick but embarrassed wave. Alvin went on, "A few months ago, one of us was fortunate enough to record a hit song with Dave, and I think we'd all enjoy hearing him perform the song with us. Dave?" Dave looked a bit ill at ease, and he held up his hands in protest. But Alvin was not to be dissuaded. "Come on, folks! Would you like to hear David Seville perform his hit song with us?" The crowd applauded, and Armen gave him a little nudge. Reluctantly, he got up and came onto the small stage, giving the audience another small wave. He readjusted Alvin's microphone to a more human-friendly height, and looked back at us nervously. I waved my drumsticks to get Dave's attention, then pointed at myself. Dave knew what that meant - follow the drummer, and he'll give you your cue. I opened with a flurry of drumbeats, then started a beat at the "Witch Doctor" tempo. Alvin and Simon watched me intently, and then played the opening four notes as I finished the last measure.

"I told the witch doctor I was in love with you," sang Dave, slightly uncertainly. We played the next four notes. "I told the witch doctor I was in love with you." Next four notes. "And then the witch doctor, he told me what to do, he said that..."

I launched into my "oo ee oo ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang" line. Dave looked back at me and smiled. And, to me anyway, the smile seemed very genuine. From one musician to another. Just the joy of making music. It felt really good to perform this song with the man who had written it, and who had asked me to perform on it.

When we finished the song, the crowd applauded enthusiastically - hey, a live performance of a recent number one hit by the original artist, at this small club! - and Dave took a bow with us. None of us knew it at the time, but this performance would eventually take on a special significance. It was the only time all four of us performed "Witch Doctor" live in front of an audience. In fact, it was the only time all four of us performed anything live in front of an audience.

We left the stage and joined Armen at their table. I liked Armen - she had put up with three noisy teenage rodents in her house better than most people probably would. Alvin and I chatted with her while Simon and Dave discussed business. At the end of the break, Simon had both an unsigned contract and a handwritten music sheet to take home.

The next day after church, the three of us went down to the basement and huddled around the song. It was more of a sketch than a song - eight vocal lines, a melody and basic chord progression. Alvin and Simon played it on their ukuleles while we ran through it the first time, all of us taking the melody line. Afterward, we paused and looked at each other.

"A Christmas waltz!" I said, impressed. "I like it, but it's awfully short." Even at a modest tempo, this song wouldn't be longer than a minute or so.

"Indeed. Perhaps Mr. Seville is working on an additional verse," guessed Simon.

Alvin grinned. "A hula hoop! That's great! I'll take that line." He motioned to both of us. "Let's get our parts down. If Dave writes more lyrics, we can just follow this verse's lead."

That made sense, so we started arranging the vocal parts. We chose to keep a pretty simple harmony on it. It was a kid's song about wanting toy planes, so there was no need to do anything fancy. Once we finished the arrangement, we sang it through once, with Simon playing a simple bass line on the ukulele. As we got to the end, I thought we might just have something here - a thought immediately confirmed by an outside observer.

"Boys?" Mrs. Gorman walked down the steps, which is something she never did while we were rehearsing. "What was that song you were just singing?"

"It's a new song that Liberty Records wants us to sing," explained Alvin.

"It's very nice. Very pretty. Much nicer than that rock and roll noise you boys seem to like so much."

Mrs. Gorman wasn't the only one who loved our arrangement. When we sang it to Dave over the phone, he flipped. He insisted that we come to the studio the next weekend to record it. After we got off the phone with him, I noticed that Simon had perhaps the most evil smile I've ever seen on him.

"They love our arrangement, and Christmas is not far off," he pointed out. "This puts us in an extremely advantageous position."

"Why's that?" asked Alvin.

"Because time is now of the essence," Simon explained. "In order to release and promote a Christmas record, Liberty must release the song as soon as possible. Which means they may make some concessions to us in order to ensure our cooperation. Let me see the contract again."

He spent the rest of the week attacking the contract, trying to come up with the best deal he thought he could possibly arrange. The biggest concession he got for us was a provision giving us a percentage of the profits from all Chipmunks-related sources of income, to be placed into trust funds until we reached adulthood. At the time, I had no idea what "all Chipmunks-related items" would entail, but eventually it included toys, books, games, clothes, you name it. I have no idea if Simon saw any of that coming or not, but I certainly can't argue with the results.

For this recording - and all future ones - we didn't have to stand on a chair. They had finally arranged to have a microphone set low enough that we could stand on the floor to sing. While they were putting it in place, I glanced over at the sheet music they had set up. I only saw the one verse, so I called out to Dave.

"Hey - is there a second verse?"

"Uh, no - just the one."

"...really?"

Dave explained, "We'll do an instrumental break, then come back in on line five for the second go round, then do a repeat of the final line."

Alvin, Simon and I looked at each other and shrugged. Well, we'd see what it sounded like. We did our mic check (yes, "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" again) and then waited for everybody else to get ready.

"OK," said Dave, sounding a bit nervous. "We're just going to give it a run-through to see how it sounds. Let's just kind of have fun with it, and see how it goes." Dave nodded to the conductor, who started the band going. Then Dave looked over at us with a rather forced smile.

"OK, you chipmunks - ready to sing your song?"

I piped up. "I'll say we are!"

Simon added, "Sure, let's sing it now."

"OK, Simon?" Dave asked.

Simon looked confused, since he had just spoken. But he answered, "OK."

"OK, Theodore?"

Remembering Dave's suggestion to "have fun with it", I answered in the lowest voice I could. "O...K."

"OK, Alvin?" Alvin didn't answer. He was staring off to the side, apparently engrossed in something. I nudged him but he waved me away. "Alvin?...AL-VIN!" Dave finally yelled.

"OK!" Alvin yelled back, just as our cue hit.

"Christmas, Christmas time is near..." we sang. Well, I thought, Alvin messed this one up. No big deal, though. It's just the practice take.

We hit the instrumental section, and I closed my eyes and started bopping my head in time to the music. They had given this little song a very pretty arrangement. Hearing Dave's voice brought me back to the here and now.

"OK, boys, get ready...that was very good, Simon."

"Naturally," said Simon, with his usual lack of modesty.

"Very good, Theodore." I was surprised to hear a compliment from Dave, so all I could do was giggle. Dave went on. "Alvin, you were a little flat. Watch it there, Alvin." Again, Alvin wasn't paying any attention. "Alvin? AL-VIN!"

"OK!" Alvin growled, cutting it really close this time.

"Want a plane that loops the loop..." we continued singing, continuing on as if nothing had happened.

Once the song ended, Dave said, "Very good, boys," but he looked awfully unsure of himself.

"Let's sing it again," I said, thinking the next time, Alvin wouldn't be so inattentive.

Dave apparently was having second thoughts about the whole thing. "No, boys, let's not overdo it."

"What do you mean - 'overdo it'?" I asked.

"We want to sing it again!" said Simon.

Soon, all four of us were arguing on top of each other as the musicians slowly dropped out one by one. We were so intent on getting our points across that we almost didn't notice Mr. Waronker walking up. He looked like he was furious with us, and I quickly clapped my hands over my mouth. Simon and Alvin both looked horrified as well.

Then I realized - Mr. Waronker wasn't angry. He was laughing. Laughing so hard that his face was turning red. "You boys..." he managed to gasp out.

Alvin grinned. "That's the take! That's the take!"

Dave looked at Alvin as if he'd lost his mind. "Alvin, be serious. This is a pretty holiday song. We can't release it with us arguing like that!"

Everyone else pretty much agreed with that, and Dave decided to give it one more go. We set back up and did another take, this time completely straight. Dave introduced us all by name, and said "these chipmunks have a wonderful holiday number for all you people out there". We sang it, let the instrumental break run, and then closed it out with a slow last line. And as the song ended, I thought "well, that was nice". But something was nagging at me. It didn't seem complete somehow. I still felt the song was missing a second verse or something.

Alvin kept telling Mr. Wanoker that the first take was the one to use, and Mr. Wanoker seemed inclined to agree with him. But Dave adamantly said he wanted the second take. We left the studio and headed home with everything still unresolved, and Dave still a bit upset at Alvin.

Despite the rather strained recording process, it felt really good to get to record with my brothers. I was smiling to myself all through school the next day, and when I got home, on a whim, I decided to go over to Dave's house to say thank you. I biked over and rang the doorbell, and Armen told me to head on into Dave's studio. I found him there, sipping coffee and looking a bit haggard.

"Oh, hello, Theodore," he said a bit distractedly.

"Hi, Dave!" I chirped. "I just wanted to say thanks for getting us in the studio yesterday! It was a lot of fun getting to record with my brothers."

"Oh, that's OK," Dave said, still sounding distracted. "You boys did a good job."

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, Mr Waronker wants to put your song out immediately, but we don't have anything to put on the b-side."

"You want me to call my brothers? We could lay down 'Let's Do the Chipmunk Rock'," I suggested.

Dave smiled. "Well, we'd have to get you songwriter contracts, and I don't think Mr. Waronker wants to rush into that. I'm just trying to pound out a piano instrumental really fast."

"How's it coming along?" I asked, a bit curious. I had never actually watched Dave writing a song before - only heard it from behind closed doors.

"OK, but I'm not quite sure where to go with it. Here, let me play it for you." He placed his hands on the piano and started playing a bit of a rhythm and blues shuffle. After the first few measures, I started nodding my head in time...and then I began slapping my front paws against the side of the piano, creating a backbeat. Dave's eyes opened a bit wider, but he played on. "Keep going," he urged. I changed the beat slightly, to something a bit more complex, as he added a quick arpeggio.

"Hey!" he said, "That's almost good!" I giggled and kept the beat going until he suddenly finished the piece with a low chord.

"That's it," he said. "Let's get down to Liberty and cut this number."

I called Mrs. Gorman to let her know I'd be going to the studio with Dave, and then we headed right over. When we got there, the only other person there was the engineer Sparks. He set up the microphones, then convinced Dave that having me pound on the side of the piano would have too much of a "dead" sound. So I was set up with a pair of tom toms to play instead. On a whim, Dave invited Sparks to clap along on the beat as we played. And two takes later, we had "Almost Good" finished.

Mr. Waronker went with his gut, and released the first take of the Christmas song. I can't say I loved the song all that much, but I was still extremely proud to see our name "The Chipmunks" across the label, with each of our individual names underneath. For some reason, on this first release, we were listed as "Alvin, Theodore and Simon". Soon afterward, they swapped it to "Alvin, Simon and Theodore". And no, I didn't mind being listed last - as long as I was on there somewhere! I didn't even mind that Dave's name was added at the bottom. After all, he had had a number one song less than a year before, so he probably had some name recognition.

There were other things about the record I wasn't crazy about. For instance, there was the title they gave it - "The Chipmunk Song". It was accurate, as far as it went, but it heavily implied that this was going to be it. That this would be the only song we'd ever record. And hearing Dave ask "ready to sing your song?" at the start of the record did nothing but underline that implication.

Another thing I didn't like was the picture sleeve that they eventually made for the record. Usually, for picture sleeves, record labels use a photograph of the artist. But instead, Liberty Records had somebody draw a cartoon picture of three chipmunks around a Christmas tree, and they used that instead. The artist at least did a passable job at drawing three cartoon chipmunks, but all three of the chipmunks looked identical. No glasses on Simon, no extra pounds on me, nothing at all to differentiate them. All three of them are wearing red footed pajamas, with only an initial on each one to indicate which chipmunk was which. Simon was drawn throwing the plane that can presumably do loop-de-loops. For some reason, I was drawn using the hula hoop, even though that's clearly Alvin singing that line in the song. Alvin, on the other hand, is looking sad or embarrassed, with his front paws behind his back. I'm assuming the artist was trying to indicate that Alvin didn't get anything for Christmas because he had misbehaved during the recording. Instead, he looks like he just crapped his pants - something I razzed Alvin about a few times.

Despite being a bit miffed about it, I really didn't give that much thought about not having our photo on the sleeve. If you had asked me back then, I would've guessed that we'd probably have our photo on the next one. But we didn't. In fact, we never had our photo on a Chipmunks single or album, ever. At first, it was Liberty Records thinking that the cartoon drawings were simply a more acceptable way to present us to kids (and adults) than our photo would've been. But as the years went on, the drawings accomplished something else - maintaining a sense of continuity that had long since passed.

Photo or no photo, the record as a monster hit. It reached number one - the first Christmas song to do so since "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" had almost a decade earlier. The record actually stayed at number one through most of January, too, which I don't think anybody could've predicted. In all, it sold over four million copies. Despite all of that, I guess it's no surprise that I ended up kind of hating this song. For years, when I heard it, I only heard Alvin sort of screaming for attention over a pleasant little holiday number. The song also became something of a template for way too many Chipmunks songs that followed.

Time has mellowed me, though. I can admit this now, several decades on, but Alvin had it right. Without his deliberate miscues, it was just a bunch of rodents saying they wished it was Christmas. Alvin's screw-ups added a lot more personality to the record which people really connected with. I still don't like hearing the song much, and wish people didn't immediately think of it whenever they find out who I am. But I at least understand why they do.

Back at the start of 1959, though, I was over the moon. For the second time in eight months, I was singing on the number one song in the country, and playing drums on the flipside, too. I was excited for the future, and looked forward to recording bigger and better things. But not surprisingly, Dave and the folks at Liberty Records had other ideas.


	6. We Like To Sing These Songs For You

With the Chipmunks on top of the singles chart, Dave asked us if we would end our residency at Pete's. "Liberty was uncomfortable with the concept of the Chipmunks as a performing act," recalls Simon. "Especially since the music we were performing was significantly removed from the novelty pop feel of the Chipmunks' first single." We had another meeting up in the treehouse, and decided that it was worth losing our regular gig to keep Liberty happy. We played a farewell weekend at Pete's, then moved our instruments back to Mrs. Gorman's basement for the time being.

When Dave had scored a hit with "Witch Doctor", Liberty Records had pushed him for a follow-up single. He eventually had managed to write another song, but it was only somewhat in the same style, and it hadn't really done well. So, once "The Chipmunk Song" became a smash, the label didn't just demand another song. They demanded another song of exactly the same kind, as soon as he could possibly write it.

This wasn't that surprising, but it ended up being a bit of an issue. You see, Simon had "discovered the muse", as they like to say, and had begun writing an original song for the first time. And rather than being a simple pop song, Simon (being Simon) spent much of December 1958 working on a rather intricate love song. He wrote it from the vantage point of a man in Venice who had been spurned by an Italian girl. The man then hired a gondola to paddle him through the canals. As the various landmarks passed by, he thought about how different men and women were, and wondered if it was actually a miracle that the two sexes ever managed to reach any common ground. Simon spent much of the month working on the bridge of "What Chance Love", which was going to be sung in Italian. He was consulting with a few people who spoke the language, trying to get the feel of it just right.

In retrospect, it's a bit baffling that Simon would think that Liberty would ever consent to the Chipmunks recording such a song. We had exactly one hit to our name, which was a novelty Christmas number. The idea that Liberty Records would completely switch gears and let us sing a heart-wrenching bilingual vocal showcase was more than a little far-fetched. But Simon had his reasons, even if they were entirely personal.

"Love," he admits. "Or the adolescent equivalent thereof. I had developed an infatuation with a fellow student in my biology class. I had made a rather clumsy attempt to woo her, and not surprisingly, she had spurned me. This resulted in me channeling my somewhat-typical teenage angst into composing a sweeping romantic number. And I foolhardily hoped that recording it would encourage this student to reconsider."

When he had finally finished it, we took it over to the Seville house. Dave looked the song over, picking out the melody on his piano and mumbling through the lyrics. When he finished, he told Simon his song was "very pretty", but he didn't think it would work as a follow-up to "The Chipmunk Song". However, Dave promised Simon that he'd write a love song for us to sing.

Which, somehow, ended up being "Alvin's Harmonica".

The backing music was actually a bit reminiscent of Simon's song - there's a vaguely Italian lilt to it. But Dave's lyrics were...well, let's say "simple". It was like a child's idea of a love song. In one of Dave's most baffling lyrics ever, he had us sing "and when we want to get a kiss, we take them through for popcorn". "I've had people ask me what the hell that means for half a century," says Alvin, "and I don't have any idea. Just know that I've never managed to get a kiss using popcorn, ever."

All of this would've been embarrassing enough for Simon. But then, in an effort to duplicate the success of our Christmas single, Dave decided to recreate the Alvin-wrecks-the-recording bit throughout the record. Alvin interrupts the proceedings by playing riffs on his harmonica, arguing that he'd rather do that than sing. Then Simon and I sing "cha cha cha", Dave pretends to throw a fit, and the song finally fades out. "Suffice to say I was under no illusion that I could win any student's affections with this drivel," says Simon candidly.

All three of us thought the song was terrible. We recorded our vocals with our eyes firmly on the sheet music. If we had looked at each other, our eyes might have rolled out of our head. I remember smirking every time Alvin said "not again" at the outset, as it echoed what I was thinking during each take. After five takes, Dave and Mr. Waronker were finally satisfied. I thought it sounded awful, and I was certain the song would stiff.

"Alvin's Harmonica" reached number three on the Billboard pop chart. In addition, it re-charted three more years at Christmas time, even though there's nothing Christmas-y or even winter-y about the song. Shows what I know. To this day, it's my least favorite of all of the Chipmunks singles. The record was credited to "David Seville and the Chipmunks", and I was a bit put out about Dave claiming top billing over us.

At the time, I was actually more upset about the flipside. Simon's suggestion that we record "What Chance Love" for the B-side was ignored. Instead, Dave pounded out another piano instrumental. And this time, he didn't invite me to play on it - he used session musicians instead. I tried to console myself by noticing that the title of the new flipside - "Mediocre" - summed up how I felt about the tune itself. It just didn't have the groove that "Almost Good" had.

With a couple of hit singles under our belts, life at school had started changing. Well, actually, it didn't change all that much for Simon and me. Simon was still the bookworm, and I was still the awkward kid. We just were now the bookworm and awkward kid who sang on those goofy Chipmunks songs. But Alvin had started becoming BCOC - big chipmunk on campus. He had always been the kind of guy to sort of thumb his nose at his teachers when their backs were turned. But once our recording career started taking off, Alvin was pretty much doing it to their faces. His grades began slipping, and he was spending more and more time with what used to be called "the unsavory element". "I guess you could say I was flirting with juvenile delinquency," he admits, "even if I don't think I was truly a delinquent myself. I didn't join a gang, or vandalize stores, or anything like that. But I was hanging out with some rougher types. A bit strange that they would accept a rodent into their ranks, considering the childish stuff I was singing on record, but then again, my 'acting out' was pretty childish, too."

Once "Harmonica" became a hit, Liberty Records had the three of us recording songs a lot more often. One of the first recordings we did was a David Seville-penned song called "Chipmunk Fun". It was basically just a litany of things that we supposedly liked. I got to mention that I liked swimming (which I did) and bowling, which I probably would have liked if I were strong enough to throw a bowling ball. But I also had to sing that we "liked to ride ponies" and a few other things that none of us actually cared about at all. And once more, Alvin was made to "ruin" the song by singing that he liked to break dishes and fight with squirrels, which led to yet another David Seville end-of-song meltdown. (Believe it or not, there are still people who think we three chipmunks are prejudiced against squirrels because of that one line. I wonder if they think we all like breaking dishes, too.)

Probably my favorite song that we recorded during this time was a song from our own not-long-passed youth - "Ragtime Cowboy Joe". Not much rehearsal was needed for that one, as all three of us knew it by heart. But, not surprisingly, Liberty rearranged the song to include Alvin shooting a cap gun, and Dave telling him to knock it off. (These songs had already become boringly predictable.) It is a bit funny that Dave never points out that the gun Alvin is shooting is a toy. All you hear is Dave saying "Alvin, put down that gun" like a bored hostage negotiator.

"They made us do, like, thirty takes of that song," complains Alvin. "Not because of our singing - we nailed that from the beginning. But Mr. Waronker kept saying my spoken parts were too hard to understand. 'Can you say it slower? And clearer?' I was sick to death of reading those lines, so I finally just over-enunciated them like crazy. 'They're...getting...away!' And they liked it like that for some reason."

"Ragtime" became our third single, and it managed to get up to number seventeen on the singles chart. A respectable showing, but it seemed like the public was starting to grow weary of the basic Alvin-ruins-Chipmunks-singing concept. That said, "Ragtime Cowboy Joe" remains a bit of a nostalgic favorite with me, and I remember getting excited when it popped up on an episode of ALF during the 1980s.

But for every song like that, there were at least three more that I really wasn't a fan of. Dave often selected children's songs for us to sing, which I would have been fine with. After all, we had discussed having us record specifically for children back at the outset. But the lyrics and arrangements often got revamped to make them...well, more "The Chipmunk Song"-y. That was true even for something as simple and straightforward as "Three Blind Mice". (That's a rather bizarre song for three chipmunks to sing, now that I think about it.) In that song, mixed in with the lyrics about tail dismemberment, Dave asks us why we had put blindfolds on the mice, and then tells Alvin to "get out of the tuba". I would try to explain that to you, but I'm not entirely certain I could.

One day, we came home from recording "Old McDonald" as a cha cha (a form that was quite popular at the time), and Simon asked me to meet him up in the treehouse. We just lay on the floor staring up at the ceiling for awhile, as Simon figured out how to say what he wanted to say. Finally, he spoke.

"Theodore, do you recall your wish?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I want to make music."

"Are you satisfied? With the present turn of events?"

I didn't answer right away. Instead, I mulled over the dozen or so songs we had recorded. "Well..." I finally said. "I'm happy that I get to record music with you and Alvin. That's kind of what I wanted all along."

"The choice of material does not displease you?"

"Well, I don't know. Isn't this something that Dave suggested we might end up doing anyway? Recording children's songs?"

"Yes, but not with Alvin displaying his sophomoric antics."

"...yeah, I guess."

Simon looked over at me. "Let us clarify your original wish. What would you prefer to be recording?"

I looked back at Simon. "Well, I wouldn't mind this stuff at all if we could do it straight. With Alvin just singing and Dave not getting angry at the end of every song."

Simon shook his head. "I did not ask you what you would not mind. I desire to know - what do you wish to record?"

I lay back down and stared at the ceiling again, letting my mind wander. What did I love doing, musically? When was I happiest? Finally, I hazarded an answer. "I'm happiest when us three are playing rock and roll, like we did at Pete's. And my favorite time in the recording studio was dashing off 'Almost Good' with Dave. That was fun. It was like..." I trailed off, trying to find the right words.

"There were no expectations outside of your artistic statement?" offered Simon.

Slowly, I nodded. "Yeah. We just came up with a song, and we pounded it out in the studio. It was a lot of fun." Simon nodded, and I asked, "So...what are you going to do?"

"At the present, nothing. I am a chipmunk under contract, and I will do my utmost to create the appearance of a happy little chipmunk under contract."

I wasn't sure I understood what he meant by that, so I just said "hm" noncommittally.

"It would probably behoove you to do the same. Put on a brave and smiling face for Liberty Records."

"Well, I don't hate this stuff..."

"Nor do I. Not at present, at any rate. It is not what I would prefer to record, but I can tolerate it. But there are nine months left on the contract, and there will no doubt be plenty of 'Old McDonald Cha Cha's between today and October."

I mulled that over a bit. Yeah, this could probably get pretty old come Halloween. But I could probably handle it until then. "Well, what happens in October?"

"I am still formulating my plan of attack, and I believe it prudent to keep the cards pressed to my chest for now."

"Aw, come on, Simon. You can trust me."

"Yes, I am fairly certain that you are trustworthy. But I feel it unnecessary to burden you with potential schemes that may alter significantly, or be completely overhauled, before they are even implemented. So allow me to continue to ruminate on this on my own for the present time."

"Well, OK. I trust you."

Simon smiled. "Excellent. Whatever the future holds, there is one activity that we should undertake."

"What's that?"

"We should resume our instrumental rehearsals. With an added emphasis on creating our own compositions. Your work with Mr. Seville on 'Almost Good' suggests that this may be a lucrative vein that might be exploited."

I beamed a bit at what at least sounded like a compliment from Simon. "Thanks." But then I thought about Alvin - how he was slacking on his homework, and generally acting like a big shot. "You think we can get Alvin to do that?"

"Perhaps. But if he proves unwilling to follow us in this endeavor, nothing is preventing us from working on the material as a duo."

"A duo?" I repeated, confused. "Just bass and drums?"

"Or guitar and drums. It is only necessary to compose and arrange the material. Additional musicians might be introduced at a later date should the need arise."

I frowned a bit. I hadn't really thought about it, but he was right. We could soldier on without Alvin if necessary. But the idea still seemed a bit wrong somehow. "I'd rather it be with Alvin," I mumbled.

Simon paused for a second, and then sighed. "To be honest, I also would prefer to work with Alvin. But one must make alternate plans in the event things do not occur as we wish they would."

As luck would have it, our conversation more or less coincided with a phone call from Mrs. Halliday, Alvin's American history teacher, revealing that Alvin had flunked his last pop quiz. Mrs. Gorman tended to be rather permissive as foster parents went, but one thing she was adamant about was us keeping our grades up. Alvin was given a long stern "talking-to", which ended with him grounded until his grades improved. Simon interceded on his behalf, asking if he could at least rehearse with us in the basement - for a couple of hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and for several hours on Saturday afternoons. Mrs. Gorman, feeling that Simon and I shouldn't be penalized for Alvin's poor study habits, agreed to let him join us.

The first Saturday after that, Mrs. Gorman had a volunteer function to attend. Just after she left, Simon suggested Alvin come downstairs with us to see if we could get a song or two written. Alvin just tied his sneakers and grinned. "Nah, I'm heading over to Larry's. I'll be back at five, long before Mrs. Gorman gets back."

Simon and I both looked aghast. "You fully intend to violate the terms of your agreement?" Simon asked.

Alvin waved that away. "What Mrs. Gorman don't know won't hurt her."

Simon set his jaw and said, "Very well. We shall discover how Mrs. Gorman responds when I reveal your deception upon her return."

Alvin's face fell as he stood up straighter. "You wouldn't dare," he challenged.

Simon walked over, and put his face about an inch from Alvin's. "Try me," he growled. He then spun on his heel and entered the stairwell down to the basement. I followed him down, with a long look back at Alvin. I hadn't seen these two act like this in at least three years.

Once downstairs, I sat down at my drum kit as Simon stomped over and slung his bass guitar over his neck. "That fool brother of ours is more than welcome to sabotage his own career," he muttered. "But I refuse to allow him the opportunity to sabotage ours."

I paused, holding my drumsticks in my paws for a minute. "You're really gonna squeal on him?"

Simon stared evenly at me through those large glasses of his. "Should it become necessary? Yes, without hesitation."

I mulled that over a bit. If Mrs. Gorman ever found out that Alvin was playing hooky during our rehearsals, we'd all be in major trouble, and perhaps we'd be grounded, as well. I nodded at Simon, letting him know I understood.

But before Simon could say anything else, Alvin walked in. As he grabbed his guitar, he looked expectantly at Simon. "So?" he asked. "What are we starting with?"

I smiled. "'Chipmunk Rock'," I said, tapping out the tempo. A few seconds later, the room was filled with us making music. Crisis averted, I thought. But much as I wished things would were settling down, they would only continue to get rockier.


	7. You Can Sing It In Your Heart

School had just let out for summer in 1959 when our debut album was released. _Let's All Sing With The Chipmunks_ was originally on red vinyl, which I thought was amazingly keen back then. (OK, I still think it's amazingly keen.) And the album became a surprise hit, reaching number four on the Billboard album chart. Back in 1959, albums were mainly an "adult" medium, with most of the top sellers being Broadway soundtracks and easy listening artists. I had a hard time wrapping my brain around the fact that so many people in the United States were buying our goofy little album. It even picked up a Grammy at the end of the year.

Once again, a cartoon drawing graced the cover. Simon and I look like genetic clones in our garish bow ties and jackets, waving our top hats and canes. Alvin looks only slightly different as he takes a knee, striking an Al-Jolson "oh Mammy" pose. In the background, a rather poorly-drawn David Seville conducts an unseen orchestra and bellows something at Alvin. In other words, the album jacket pretty much tells you what you're in for before you hear a note of it.

By the time the album was released, we had settled into a schedule. Every other Sunday, Dave would pick us up to drive us to Liberty Studios. He'd hand us the sheet music for a song or two that we'd be recording that day, and we'd rehearse on the car ride over. We no longer had to work out any of our arrangements. Everything, right down to the Alvin-Dave arguments, was already scripted out. We'd walk in, do a few takes, then go home.

And, as I had told Simon before, I didn't hate it. It was always fun singing with my brothers, and I didn't find any of the songs to be out-and-out terrible. But the basic thrill of recording had started wearing off. These weren't the songs I would've chosen to record if I had any say in things. Recording was getting to be a bit like a good high school class - you sort of enjoy it, but it's still something you're doing because you have to.

Once in a while, we did get to record songs that I actually liked. We had fun doing a song called "Alvin's Orchestra", which was released later (in 1960) as a single. We actually come up with the idea for that one while on the way home from a recording session.

"We were making quite a bit of money for Liberty Records," says Alvin, "but they were always looking for ways to cut corners. I remember Mr. Waronker complaining that Dave had put two trumpet players on a song - 'isn't one enough?' I said we should do a song about him called 'Penny Pincher.' My original idea was that over the course of the song, Mr. Waronker would send all of the session musicians home one by one, and the song would end with us three singing a cappella." Dave liked the idea, but he decided to revamp it to make it more like a standard Chipmunks song. In the final version, Alvin has supposedly hired a huge orchestra to play behind us, and Dave freaks out about how much it's going to cost.

Alvin lets loose with a rather weird spoken aside on that record, and I'll let him explain how it came about. "I had just read this dumb article about the state of popular music. 'This modern music is all garbage, things were much better before rock and roll', you know the type. And the author mentioned the Chipmunks by name. He said, 'their popularity is bewildering, since I absolutely cannot make out a single word they're saying.' And I told Dave, 'I should say that to you during the song'. You and Simon thought that was hilarious, so Dave decided to go along with it, and let me say that during the instrumental break."

One other song we got to play around with was "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain". Simon recalls, "We had already completed a recording of the song, following the standard Chipmunks template. Alvin interrupts and suggests she might take a Chevrolet, Mr. Seville loses his temper, et cetera. But we were informed afterward that there had been an error in the master tape, rendering it unusable, which necessitated a re-recording. I took the opportunity to request that I be allowed to create a new arrangement. Since the recording date was a few weeks away, Mr. Seville told me to proceed, but warned that he could not promise that Liberty would use my arrangement."

For the next week or two, all of our rehearsal time was spent working on a new arrangement for "Mountain". And Simon turned to an unlikely source for inspiration. "The Mormon Tabernacle Choir had achieved a left-field hit around that time with their rendition of 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic'. I was quite taken by the extremely quiet introduction, which slowly built into this full choral piece. I decided I wanted to start 'Mountain' in much the same way, building to a crescendo, and then quietly fading out." Simon's arrangement also featured a shift into a bit of a rhythm and blues feel during the third verse. "To be honest, that was a limp attempt to camouflage the lyrics. The original lyric is 'we will kill the old red rooster when she comes'. On our lyric sheet, Dave had replaced the word 'kill' with 'ride'. I found the concept of us riding a rooster to be quite ludicrous, but he was adamant about that line. I felt shifting the feel of the backing music might obfuscate the lyrics at that troublesome spot."

Once we finished, we had Dave come into the basement to hear it - just us three with our guitar, bass and drum arrangement. He really enjoyed it, and agreed to record the song with that arrangement. He of course added more instruments, but Simon at least got to put his own personal stamp on that song.

"I was a bit too self-absorbed at the time to really think about this," Alvin admits, "but looking back, it's weird that Liberty didn't make much use of Simon. He had written that amazingly intricate pop song. True, it wasn't a good fit for us, but it should've been a hit for Johnny Mathis or someone. And then he did this great arrangement of 'Comin' Round the Mountain'. You'd think somebody at Liberty would have said, 'Hey, this chipmunk is a great songwriter and arranger. Let's put him to work for us.' But they just had him stand next to you and sing 'oo-wa' behind me on Chipmunks songs."

Simon just shrugs when asked about it today. "Had they approached me, of course, I would have attempted to write and arrange on demand. But they never did." Did that upset him? Simon shakes his head no. "It was an enjoyable diversion to write and arrange on occasion, but I never felt it to be my life's calling."

Liberty not only released "Mountain" as a single, but even put a second Chipmunks song on the flipside instead of the typical David Seville instrumental. "Sing a Goofy Song" is a pretty good example of most of the songs we were recording then. I liked the basic concept - "sing a goofy song to help get you through the day" - and I thought it might make a good tune for us three. But Dave insisted on singing lead on the first half, and then (yes) getting angry at us at the end. And that was often the way. Even when I liked some aspect of a song we were recording, it seemed like we were never going to get the opportunity to just sing.

The summer brought a couple of changes to our lives. Being the genius he was, Simon graduated from high school two years early. Although college was pretty much a given for him, he decided to forgo it for the time being so he could continue working on his music career. "We were selling very well then, and one must take advantage when conditions are favorable," he says. And had we been standard human pop stars, we probably would've spent the entire summer on promotional activities - playing sock hops, appearing in movies, and so forth. But Liberty seemed content to have us be a recording-only group. The only change in our schedule was our recording days were moved from Sundays to Tuesdays. It was strange being a bit "famous", and yet still being completely unknown. This was the time that I first started to feel a bit of a disconnect between myself and that voice on the records.

There were a few Chipmunks-related items available at that time besides our records. There was a picture book version of "Christmas Don't Be Late", featuring artwork by a not-yet-famous Richard Scarry. Liberty struck a deal with Dell, a comic book company, and a few issues of "The Three Chipmunks" hit the newsstands. I still have my copy of the first issue, in which Alvin sneaks a harmonica into a recording session. A comic retelling of the "Alvin's Harmonica" story, really. I remember Alvin complaining how little the comic book chipmunks looked like us - Simon and I were wearing red and pink vests, and Alvin had on a yellow striped shirt and fishing hat. "Had I known what was coming, I would've kept my mouth shut," says Alvin with a smirk.

With school over for the summer, Alvin quickly resumed his "hanging out" activities. And it probably wasn't more than a week into the vacation that he stopped showing up for our basement jam sessions. Simon and I were upset by this at first, but we quickly adapted. If Alvin didn't want to help out, so be it - we'd just work on our songs as a duo. In fact, Simon built himself his own electric guitar, so he wouldn't have to use the one he made for Alvin. It was blue (his favorite color), and it looked and sounded quite a bit better than the old yellow "cowboy" one that he had made for Alvin.

By early July, Simon and I had come up with a mid-tempo number we really liked. I kept the drum beats pretty measured, and Simon played some groovy guitar over top. We pictured having a horn player play a melody over top - either a saxophone or a trumpet. Since we didn't have a horn player handy, we just started singing some wordless vocals where we wanted the horn part to go. "Uh uh uh ah uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, do be ah." As we practiced it more, Simon and I would take turns adding "voice horn" solos to the song. One of us would sing "da da dwee ba, da da dwee ba" or whatever, imitating a trumpet solo. Just two musicians messing around, really, but it was a lot of fun.

Eventually, Simon got in touch with two great guys - Sascha Burland and Don Elliott. "I described the piece that we were crafting, and they immediately told me that they knew a bass player who would be ideal for the recording. They also promised to secure a trumpet or saxophone player for the rehearsal."

Later that week, Simon and I set up our instruments in a rehearsal space at Liberty. As Simon finished tuning, the door opened to reveal a tall thin man, carrying a stand-up bass. Simon waved to him, but he seemed reluctant to come all the way in.

"Uh, I was told to come for a jam session?" he asked.

"Yes," said Simon. "This is the correct room."

He still seemed unsure, but he at least entered the room all the way. Simon went on, "My name is Simon, and this is my brother Theodore." I waved my drumsticks at him.

The man introduced himself as Jack Six, then stopped. "Wait - Simon? Theodore? You guys those Christmas chipmunks?"

Simon frowned. "Yes. We were two of the singers of that holiday number."

"And now you're looking to jam?"

"Indeed. We have composed a skeletal jazz piece, but being novices to the idiom, we felt it prudent to consult with someone having more experience within that musical genre."

"...huh?"

I translated, "We don't know much about jazz, so we're asking you for help." Jack grinned, and so I explained the basic song concept to him. "It's kind of a slow shuffle, and we want to add bass and horn. Here - Simon and I will run through it for you."

We launched into the song, adding our vocalizing as we had been doing the last few weeks. Jack started laughing, and I was tempted to stop and tell him to get lost. But I quickly figured out he wasn't mocking us. He was just enjoying the groove that we were laying down. After the first few measures, he started playing along. It wasn't difficult, as the chord progression was pretty simple, and we were telegraphing our chord changes pretty well.

When we were about halfway through, the door opened again. I glanced up, assuming that it was the horn player. Instead, Mr. Burland and Mr. Elliott quietly slipped into the room. Mr. Burland excitedly spun his finger in a circle, indicating for us to keep going. So I sort of blocked them out, and continued on with my drumming and "doo wah"-ing.

When we finished, Jack laughed some more. "That's one fun little number you got there."

My smile got wider. I loved the piece myself, but it was especially gratifying to hear another musician say so. "Thanks! We're still not sure if that should be a sax or trumpet part, but we have someone coming any minute, and once he's here..."

Mr. Burland interrupted me. "Actually, you don't. We were stopping in to tell you that Fred had to cancel."

I frowned. "Well, heck."

Mr. Burland said, "But I'm not so sure you need one."

Simon looked up at him through his big glasses. "How do you mean?"

Mr. Elliott jumped in. "Your voices are far more distinctive than any horn part would be."

Jack nodded, leaning against his bass. "The song's groovy just like it is."

I looked at Simon and he looked at me. Simon asked, "You mean, with our vocal taking the melody?"

"You swap out your vocals with a horn," Mr. Burland said, "and you just have a nice little jazzy pop number. But with you two scatting over it..." He smiled. "...it's something special."

Again, Simon and I exchanged glances, but this time, Simon shrugged. "I defer to your expertise."

Jack looked over at me, and I said, "You guys know better than us."

Simon continued talking to Jack. "I shall endeavor to schedule a recording session. Might we rely upon your assistance?"

I started to translate, but Jack held up his hand. "Nah, I got that - I know when someone's offering me a gig in every language."

"And let us know if Liberty doesn't want it," added Mr. Elliott. "Because I bet we can find somebody else who would."

We exchanged phone numbers, and a few days later, Jack met us at a small studio in Los Angeles that he had recommended. Simon had an hour booked, and we were prepared to slog through all sixty minutes trying to get a good take. On the first run-through, Simon and I took turns "soloing" with our wordless vocals, and we also tossed in a few random jazzy phrases - "groovy!", "too much!" As we tried holding the last note, we both dissolved into giggles, as the whole things seemed so silly. I still managed to finish with a quick drum fill, though.

Jack smiled at us, leaning on his bass a little. "You did it."

Simon half-smiled back. "Thank you. I believe a subsequent take would enable me to strengthen the guitar part..."

Shaking his head, Jack said, "Don't bother. The magic was in that one."

We had the engineer play it back for us, and we decided Jack was correct. "It isn't perfect, but it's right," as the saying goes. We spent the next half hour or so trying to come up with a title for it, which means the song actually took longer to name than it did to record. We finally just settled on "Uh-Oh", since it was the vocalization we made the most during the song.

Once we got home from the session, Simon took me up to the treehouse. "Listen," he told me. "Do not divulge our activities of today to anybody. Not to Dave, not even to Alvin."

"Why not?"

"I believe it would be prudent to remain silent about it for the time being. We are rapidly approaching the end of the current term of our contracts, and I am concerned that knowledge of this recording might hamper the negotiations."

I wasn't sure why that was, but as always, I trusted Simon. So I agreed to stay mum about it. "They know we've been working on this song, though."

"That knowledge is immaterial. We may continue developing other music in addition to 'Uh-Oh'. But please, not a word about the recording." He stopped and regarded me for a moment. "Have you revised your opinion about the quality of the Chipmunks recordings?"

I thought for a second, then shrugged. "They're still OK. I'd much rather do more stuff like 'Uh-Oh', though..."

"Obviously. But what if you had the ability to opt out?"

"Opt out?" I echoed. "You mean, stop recording?"

"Not entirely. Just forgo participating in any Chipmunks recording you chose not to sing."

I mulled that over. "So then I'd just sing on the stuff I really wanted to?"

"Precisely."

"Yeah, that'd be swell. How are you gonna swing that, though?"

Simon smiled a bit, his eyes twinkling through his glasses. "Leave that to me."


	8. Get Ready, Here We Go

The next step of Simon's plan was to make sure that Alvin wouldn't undermine it. "Simon and I had a little meeting up in the treehouse," Alvin remembers. "He told me that it was almost time for our contracts to get renewed, and he wanted to make some changes. He didn't go into specifics, which was smart of him - I've never had a head for business." Instead of appealing to Alvin's sense of loyalty, Simon decided to play on a more base emotion: greed. "Simon had some numbers written down - how much money we'd made over the past year, and what he thought we could get if he managed to renegotiate the contract. He said he was pretty sure he could get those terms, but I'd have to stick by you two. He had this feeling that once negotiations started, Liberty would probably try to get me to break ranks with you. I thought that was silly - 'come on, they know we're a team'. But Simon was pretty sure that they'd try something." So, did they? Alvin smiles. "Oh, hell, yes."

"I scheduled a meeting with Mr. Seville and Mr. Waronker, which eventually encompassed the better part of a week. That was not a pleasant time," adds Simon with a great deal of understatement. "During the negotiations, Dave suggested that Liberty had the option of simply completing their current contract with us, and then utilizing an alternate trio of rodents as the vocalists for The Chipmunks recordings. I then reminded them that all recordings up until that point had been emblazoned with our legal names. Liberty would either have to switch to different names on subsequent recordings - a step which they were obviously loathe to take - or else continue using our names even when other rodents were providing the voices, which would most likely become a legal issue."

"I got a call from Dave the day after Simon started meeting with them," Alvin said. "He said, 'Your brother Simon is going to wreck everything with these outlandish demands of his.' He sort of suggested that I could come down and sign a contract of my own, and that they'd 'take good care of me'. I guess their idea was that they'd keep 'Alvin', and bring in two other sidekick rodents for the records and cartoon. But I just said 'Sorry - Simon's in charge of the contracts. You'll have to talk to him' and hung up on him."

Simon came home after the third day, looking like hell, and said they had finally worked out a deal. The new contracts included several clauses that Simon called "right of refusal". It basically meant that if there was any song that we didn't want to sing, we could skip it. However, any song released under the Chipmunks name without our involvement would still earn us a percentage of what we would have had we actually sung on it. He made a similar deal with the upcoming television show. If we didn't want anything to do with it, we'd still get paid a modest sum just for having our name and likeness involved. "This was my stratagem for enabling us to opt out of any project we had no interest in, while still maintaining a financial stake in them."

The new contract also included a "right of refusal" for Liberty Records. It stated that if we approached them with something that we three had created, they had first dibs on it. If they chose to pass on it, we could shop it to another record label, as long as it wasn't released under the Chipmunks name. Simon remembered, "After the massive haggling over the royalty rates, neither Dave nor Liberty gave too much thought to that particular clause. This proved highly advantageous to us."

We all put our signatures down the next week, but that doesn't mean everybody was happy. Things were tense and awkward during the next few recording sessions. Dave would hand us the sheet music and say, "Here's what we're going to do today" adding "if that's OK with you" in a heavily sarcastic voice. Strangely enough, none of us turned anything down during the first several months after the negotiations. Not because we were scared to, but because we actually didn't have any problem with the material they were giving us. It may not have been all first-rate stuff, but there was nothing as dumb as, say, "Alvin's Harmonica".

The ink can't have been too dry on the new contracts before Simon presented them with our completed recording of "Uh-Oh!", and suggested it be made the next Chipmunks single. Liberty turned it down, saying that the jazzy feel of the song ran counter to their plan for the Chipmunks. And, to be fair, it actually did. The Chipmunks at the time were recording children's songs with a bit of a country bent. We had already recorded "I've Been Working on the Railroad" and "Home on the Range", and I can understand why they felt "Uh-Oh!" wasn't going to fit in with that.

There was one particular song we recorded around that time which we all really liked. In "I Wish I Had a Horse", we three were staring out the window, mooning for a horse of our very own. We originally cut the song as a ballad, with just a quiet guitar and bass backing us up. Dave only appeared at the very beginning of the song, asking why we all looked so sad. And I really thought we nailed the thing. We sounded wistful, like we all knew we weren't ever going to have this wish come true. Alvin puts it best - "That first version was like hearing a kid ask Santa for his missing father to come home again. It kind of broke my heart when I was singing it."

That version never saw the light of day. I don't know if it was Dave or Mr. Waronker, but somebody decided it was too depressing. So they had us re-cut it at a faster tempo. On that second version, Dave asks why we're rubbing rabbit's feet for luck, and our singing is punctuated by a tooting saxophone. That version isn't that bad as far as album filler goes. But if you compare it to the touching song we recorded first, it's hard not to view it as a real missed opportunity. When they reissued the album on CD in 1999, I was hoping to see the original take as a bonus track, but no such luck.

Looking back, actually, it's a bit surprising that there weren't more Chipmunks releases in 1959. Yeah, we put out an album and two singles. But this was the late fifties, when most popular recording artists were getting a new single out every two months, and a new album every four. You'd think Liberty would be flooding the market with Chipmunks records. Instead, they seemed content to let us slowly build up enough material for the next album release. Another strange thing - our biggest hit was a Christmas song, and I don't even think it occurred to anybody at Liberty to have us record another one. Not that year, anyhow.

But if Liberty was dragging their feet, Simon was picking up the slack. Mr. Burland and Mr. Elliott put Simon in touch with some people at Hanover Records. "Steve Allen was a partner for that mid-sized label," explains Simon. "I was drawn to them because they had some jazz credibility, which I felt would be advantageous for a rodent-based combo such as ours. I met with them for an hour or two, and the conversation was very pleasurable. Music was the sole topic of conversation - not once was a deal mentioned. The next day, I returned for a lunch meeting, and only at the end of that meal was the subject of a record deal finally broached."

Once the contracts were signed, we prepared to have "Uh-Oh!" released on Hanover, under the band name The Offbeatniks. The art director at Hanover drew two beatnik chipmunks to use for the sleeve and print advertising. They made the bespectacled one the fat one, which I guess was their way of differentiating them from "the Chipmunks". That, and there was only two of us, I guess.

Unfortunately, Hanover also made a last-minute decision to change the group name, and decided to play up the rodent angle. So we were no longer The Offbeatniks - we were The Nutty Squirrels. They altered the beatnik chipmunk drawing to make them look more like squirrels, and they modeled a pair of clay squirrel figurines to use in the promotional materials, as well.

When we found out, Simon and I were livid...and no, not because of any anti-squirrel prejudice on our part. We just thought that The Offbeatniks was a great band name that perfectly summed up what we were all about. The name the Nutty Squirrels was just stupid. Yeah, the song was a bit silly, but it was far more musical than anything with The Chipmunks name on it. And now we were stuck with this name that suggested we were either deliberately goofy or clinically insane.

But despite our issues with the name, we were really pleased with Hanover's promotional efforts. The recording of "Uh-Oh!" was a little on the long side, so Hanover decided to split it, and put half on each side of a single. Mr. Burland and Mr. Elliott wrote up a fun fake bio for "The Nutty Squirrels". Hanover paired that up with the single, and shipped it out to radio and record stores. And pretty quickly, the song started taking off. In fact, both sides made the chart - Part One only got to number forty-four, but Part Two went all the way to number fourteen. This made it a bigger hit than all the Chipmunk singles other than "Christmas" and "Alvin's Harmonica". Hanover even made a strange little music video featuring a bunch of beachgoers dancing to "Uh-Oh! (Part Two)", and it aired as part of the "Welcome Home Elvis" TV special. I wonder if Elvis got to see it, and if he was a fan.

Perhaps the best thing about "Uh-Oh!" was the effect it had on the other students at our high school. Once the Chipmunk songs started coming out, nobody seemed to treat me any differently, probably since the songs were pretty juvenile. But word got out that that was me singing and playing drums on "Uh-Oh!", and a few students told me that they liked the song. It's not like everybody suddenly loved me or anything, but there seemed to be a little more acceptance. I remember one fellow student named Ralph suggesting that I join the school marching band. (I pointed out that my stubby legs meant I would've had to run rather than march just to keep up.) Once in a while, someone would razz me about it - one guy sang "uh ah uh ah uh-oh" when I messed up a problem in geometry class - but it was mainly a positive reaction.

In the case of one particular student, it was a very positive reaction.

Elaine and I had shared a few classes, although we hadn't exchanged much more than an occasional hello. She might have gotten a bit more chatty once the Chipmunks songs started coming out, but it was "Uh-Oh!" that she apparently went, well, nutty for. One day, just after my last class of the day, Elaine came up to me and told me how much she loved the song. I awkwardly thanked her, and she started asking me more questions about the group - if Simon and I were going to record more, if we performed concerts, stuff like that. I still wasn't used to carrying on a long conversation with a fellow classmate, but I tried to keep things going. Then she asked if I minded if she walked home with me. Heck, no, I didn't mind.

Once we got to my place, I showed her around to the backyard.

"Oo, you guys have a tree house!" Elaine said, pointing.

"Yeah," I said, a bit embarrassedly. "I guess it figures, being chipmunks and all."

"Can I see inside?" Elaine looked really excited, which I thought was strange. I mean, it was a treehouse. And we were teenagers - a bit past the age when one usually gets excited about treehouses.

I frowned. "I don't know." It wasn't like we had a "No Girls Allowed" sign on it or anything, but we never took any of our friends up there. It had always been just us three. "It's awfully small."

"Oh, I'll fit. I'm not that big."

She started climbing the tree with no further word, and I figured I'd best follow. I crawled up, and sat beside her. I figured I'd try pushing the musician angle. "We kind of use this for meetings now, when we want to discuss recordings or contracts or something."

Elaine laughed. "It's kind of a funny place for a meeting."

"Yeah. But it's better than the kitchen table." I frowned again. "Sorry - it's not very interesting up here."

She smiled and said, "That's OK. I think you're interesting." Then she leaned down and sort of snuggled against me.

I had two thoughts when she started kissing me. One was "OH MY GOD, I'M HUGGING A GIRL". The other was "OH MY GOD, I'M HUGGING A GIRL". Did I say I had two thoughts? Sorry - I meant one. Just the one. You see, as a chipmunk in a human world, I sort of assumed I wasn't going to be dating much...or ever. Sure, I had daydreams about having a girlfriend. But even those fantasies were more of the 1950s sitcom type - maybe a girl chipmunk to share a milkshake with at Henderson's, or take to a sock hop. I hadn't really fantasized about what might have come afterwards. But as surprising as this turn of events was, I sure as hell wasn't complaining. I don't know how good I was at hugging her back, but considering how long we were at it, I'd say I can't have been that bad.

We finally climbed back down from the treehouse, then talked a bit more as we tried to brush the leaves and dirt off of our clothes the best we could. We were pretty sure how the kids at school would react to Elaine having a chipmunk boyfriend. So we decided to just be friends at school, and boyfriend-girlfriend after school, in private. Sounds corny, I know, but that's what we said we were going to be. And as I waved goodbye to her from the front yard, I decided the life of a musician might not be such a bad one.

But if "Uh-Oh!" gained me a girlfriend-not-girlfriend, it caused some major strife in another relationship...a lot closer to home.


	9. We Live In Harmony

"God, I hated that song," Alvin tells me when I ask him about the Nutty Squirrels debut single. "Not just hated it. It actually made me angry. Like, physically angry. When it came on the radio, I wanted to punch it. Or punch you and Simon." Why such a strong reaction? "Petty bullshit," says Alvin with a shrug. "Up until that point, it had always been Alvin, Simon, and Theodore - in that order. That song was Simon and Theodore, with no Alvin at all. And let's face it - your song may not have been art or anything, but it sure as hell was better than anything with the Chipmunks name on it. And I could've been a part of it. I was with you guys back when you were first working on that material. But you know, I was a teenager. I decided I'd rather hang out with my friends than write and rehearse with you. And while I was running around and goofing off, you two wrote and recorded a good hit single.

"The mature thing to do would've been to apologize to you two, and ask if I could join the group. Even if it was too late to get included in the Nutty Squirrels drawings," Alvin added with a smirk. "But of course I didn't do that. As I said, that would have been the mature thing to do. And we're talking about AL-VIN here. Teenage AL-VIN, no less. I don't think teenage AL-VIN ever did the mature thing."

I guess Simon and I were lucky, because Alvin didn't get openly hostile. He basically just shut us out. Despite us three sharing a bedroom, neither Simon nor I saw much of Alvin during the end of 1959 and the start of 1960. I'd see him at dinner, occasionally at school, and just as we got into bed. And of course, we were still doing Chipmunks recordings together on Sundays. But otherwise, he was hanging out with his friends, and not talking to us much at all if he could help it.

But as Alvin began pulling away, Simon and I were drawing closer together. Hanover wanted a follow-up single and full-length LP as soon we could deliver them. Every weekday, I'd come home from school, rush through my homework, and then head down to the basement. Simon would tell me what he had come up with during the day, and we'd see if we could turn his ideas into a song.

We eventually came up with a pretty ballad with a nice electric guitar line. Just like before, we worked out the melody by vocalizing wordlessly on top. Our original idea was to just have us humming the melody line. But we decided our humming would be hard to hear over the backing music, so we swapped it to "doo wah doo wah"-type vocalizations. The song ended with a few quietly-sung "uh huh"s, so we decided to name the song "Uh Huh".

"That was an error on our part," Simon states. "I am convinced that people glanced at the song title and misread it as 'Uh Oh', thus not realizing it was a separate and distinct piece. Had we given it a different moniker - even 'Doo Wah' - I am certain it would have performed better."

Simon bought some jazz records for us to listen to, hoping they would give us some inspiration for more Nutty Squirrels pieces. We were both drawn to the Dizzy Gillespie number "Salt Peanuts", so we decided to try writing an uptempo number in the same style. But after working on it for a couple of weeks, we weren't really getting anywhere. The few good parts that we came up with sounded a little too much like the original. Finally, I just said "Well, why don't we just do 'Salt Peanuts'?" And once we decided on that, everything fell into place. We'd been listening to it so much, we had the song pretty much committed to memory. We just had to sit down and pound it out.

From the very first note of our run-through, Simon and I just clicked. We spent the entire song staring at each other - me over my drum rolls, and Simon over his paws busily playing his guitar. Our smiles got bigger and bigger as we "sha ba doo"ed and "doo bee doo wah"ed our way through the Gillespie classic. We ended with a few repetitions of "salt peanuts, salt peanuts", until Simon yelled "yeah!" as I hit a cymbal with all my might. As the cymbal crash reverberated through the basement, Simon and I simply stared at each other. I don't know what was running through Simon's head, but I was simply enjoying the afterglow.

On rare occasions, when I play music, everything seems to really come together. I end up surpassing what I ever thought I could do. And when that happens to me, I like to just enjoy the feeling of "being musical". Looking back on that moment, staring at Simon as he rested his paws on his guitar, I can honestly say for the first time in my young life that I felt like I had "made it".

Up until that time, sure, I had performed music. I had played shows, and recorded songs. I had two number one songs and a top ten album under my belt. But I often felt like most of that had been sheer luck. That anybody could have warbled those lyrics, or hit those toms on "Almost Good" - I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I was proud of my work on "Uh-Oh", but even that had felt like a bit of a fluke. But that first run-through of "Salt Peanuts" felt different. I wasn't just doing things that anybody else could have done. Even though we didn't write that song, for those two minutes, we owned that song. We had created something. And in my eyes, we had created something great.

Theodore Chipmunk was a musician, goddammit.

My reverie was interrupted by the door at the top of the stairs opening.

"That was very nice, boys," Mrs. Gorman shouted down to us.

Simon and I dissolved into giggles. "Thank you, Mrs. Gorman," we yelled back up.

By that point, Elaine and I had been together-not-together for about two months. We remained casually friendly at school, and I don't think anybody suspected anything was going on. A couple of times a week, we'd meet up in the woods behind my neighborhood for cuddle sessions. If we had the time, I'd lay my head in her lap and we'd talk about everything and nothing. She'd complain about how the other girls at school treated her, I'd complain about Alvin and our recording career, we'd both complain about our classes. Then we'd have some crackers or something, and get back to cuddling. It wasn't a very deep relationship, and I missed the whole acting-goofy-in-the-company-of-others thing that seemed to be part of high school romances. But I definitely enjoyed our times together.

Unfortunately for the two of us, this was happening just about the same time Simon and I tore up "Salt Peanuts". That song inflamed a passion in me deeper than even Elaine was capable of. I now wanted to spend all of my spare time in the basement with Simon working on new material. I tried to keep Elaine in the loop, and even invited her to watch as Simon and I worked out a new tune. She sat and watched us for about fifteen minutes, then said she had to leave. To my surprise, she said she found the whole thing "a bore" - strange, considering that it was my music that originally drew her to me.

About a week later, Elaine and I were back in the woods. We had been kissing for a bit when she suddenly pulled away from me and stared down at my foot. I had apparently started thinking of a rhythm, and begun tapping it out with my foot, all without really thinking about it. Elaine shot me a dirty look, grabbed her jacket and started marching off.

"Elaine, wait!" I shouted, running after her. "I'm sorry!" But suddenly I pulled up short, and watched her disappear through the trees. Was I sorry? Well, I was sorry that I had hurt her feelings, and that I had made her feel unimportant. But...no, I wasn't sorry about what had happened. In fact, I found my foot tapping out the rhythm again. This is a good one, I thought. I should play it for Simon.

I gave Elaine a bit of a head start, then left the woods, got on my bike, and headed back home. When I went down to the basement, Simon was there working something out on a toy piano he had bought. "Where is Elaine?" he asked. I just shook my head, sat down at my drum set, and waited until he was done so I could show him the rhythm that I had come up with. We eventually ended up using it as the basis for the Nutty Squirrels song "Zowee", and I guess it's not surprising that I can't play or hear that song without thinking of Elaine.

Elaine was no longer my girlfriend-not-girlfriend, but she at least tried to stay civil to me. She sort of had to - she couldn't exactly explain to her friends that we had broken up without first explaining that we were a couple, and she wasn't about to do that. She was sort of stuck not having anybody to talk to about it all. I could tell it was really difficult for her, and I ended up writing "I'm very sorry" on a piece of paper and slipping it into her locker. It was about all I could think of to do.

Unfortunately, my relationship with Elaine ended up being something of a template for all of my romantic relationships to come. A lot of things unspoken, a short period of pretty heavy passion, a settling into a pattern, a severe lack of communication, and a sort of fumbling break-up when they found life with Theodore Chipmunk wasn't all they hoped it would be. I'm sure the fault there lies with me. I could have been more open with my girlfriends, and I definitely could have worked harder at maintaining those relationships. It took me far too long to realize that even a good relationship needs work to hold it together. I mainly just let things happen, and not surprisingly, my relationships all sort of died of neglect.

To all the other past women in my life, a Theodore-Chipmunk-handwritten "I'm very sorry" for you, too.

While Simon and I kept pounding away at our Nutty Squirrels songs, we were still joining Alvin on Sundays to record as the Chipmunks. Most of the songs we were recording around that time were well-known children's songs that had something of a country feel. But on occasion, Dave would write something different especially for us. For instance, when the presidential election started to heat up in 1960, Dave wrote a song called "Alvin for President". Not surprisingly, it was just the latest entry in the "Dave wants us to sing a pretty song but Alvin messes it up" parade. Alvin keeps breaking into outlandish campaign promises - penny ice cream cones for everybody! - and offers me the job of his campaign manager, while Simon becomes his running mate. One small difference on this song was that Dave "lined" the song for us. On the record, he told us what each line would be just before we sang it. Because of that, Dave's on this record almost more than we are.

It's a bit ironic that the song we're singing underneath Alvin's campaign slogans is all about how well we get along. "We're polite," we sing, at Dave's direction. "We hardly ever fight." The song ends with Simon and me chanting "we want Alvin!" over and over. All of this at a time when Alvin was hardly talking to us. Was that intentional on Dave's part, I wondered?

"Nah," says Alvin. "I only saw Dave the same times as you did - on recording days. We didn't go out to lunch and share complaints or anything. I doubt Dave even realized that I had any issue with you guys."

Things had eased up quite a bit between Dave and us by this time. I don't recall if this thing happened the same Sunday we recorded "Alvin for President", but it was around that time. Dave was driving us back to Mrs. Gorman's after our session. As he pulled up, he said, "Oh, right, before I forget - Alvin, what's your favorite color?"

"Red," said Alvin.

"And you, Simon?"

"Royal blue," Simon said, precise as always.

"And how about you, Theodore?"

"Blue," I said. "But Dodger blue, not Cubs blue." I sneered at Simon, who gave me a smirk in response.

"Oh," said Dave, sounding a bit confused. "Well, what's your second-favorite color?"

"Me?" I asked. "Um...green?"

"Perfect. See you guys next week."

We piled out of his station wagon and watched him drive off.

"What do you think that was about?" I asked.

Simon adjusted his glasses. "I would theorize that he is creating a new song for us, where we sing about our favorite colors."

Alvin smiled. "Or maybe he's getting us all presents, and he's making sure he gets us the right colors."

I rolled my eyes at that, but for once, Alvin was right. We were getting a present. One that would keep on giving for years to come.


	10. This Is The Alvin Show

1960 had just begun when Simon and I joined Jack in the studio to record "Salt Peanuts" and "Uh-Huh". After we had finished, we sat down in a conference room with a few guys from Hanover. They wanted our input on which song should be the A-side of the single - the one Hanover would try to get radio stations to play.

"I think we should go with 'Salt Peanuts'." I said. "It really cooks, and it shows off another side of our group."

"That is difficult to argue against," Simon admitted. "However, the other song is a more logical step from our debut. It may be prudent to promote that one. Or perhaps both songs are worthy of being promoted."

"A double-sided hit?" I asked. This wasn't uncommon back in the fifties. Sometimes, both sides of a single would become hits. For instance, RCA had released "Don't Be Cruel" and "Hound Dog" by Elvis Presley on the same single, and both songs had managed to hit number one.

The guys from Hanover weren't too sure about that idea. The label was kind of small, and they probably didn't have the resources to push two songs at once. After we discussed it some more, they asked if we had any other songs ready, and Simon told him we were about set with two or three others. So it was suggested that we record those the following week, and then see if we had a better idea what to do.

The next Saturday, we came back in and laid down two new songs we had finished - "Zowee" and "Ding Dong". Both were pretty solid numbers, although none of us thought they were quite as good as the previous two. That meant we still had no clear choice for the A-side of the next Nutty Squirrels single. After a second lengthy meeting with Hanover, we finally just told Hanover to put out whatever they thought would work the best.

They eventually decided to release all four songs on a seven-inch record, two per side. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Record labels had been doing this for years, calling them EPs (short for "extended play"). But Hanover insisted this wasn't an EP - it was a "double single". Yes, that's what they called it - a double single. They told record stores that it should be priced as a single, and kept with the other singles. From what I understand, some record stores did and others didn't. To make things worse, the label design didn't even make it clear which song was supposed to be the hit. This may have been on of the reasons that the record sort of slipped out of sight without reaching the chart.

The picture sleeve for the "double single" was actually pretty clever. They set those two ceramic Nutty Squirrels up against a red background. A small pile of peanuts, still in their shells, stands next to me (or next to "the one without glasses"). Next to Simon ("the one with glasses") is a small pile of crushed peanut shells, suggesting Simon had eaten his. ("Simon" was the fat one in the Squirrels.) Simon says, "The sleeve was indicative of the creativity that drew me to Hanover Records originally. If only their innovative plan for the single itself had been as successful."

Undaunted, Hanover had us keep return to the studio several times to record enough material for a full-length album. Since The Nutty Squirrels were a more adult, jazz-themed act, they thought we'd do better in the LP market than we had with singles. Simon and I were still on something of a tear at the time, so we had little trouble coming up with enough material. Either I'd get a beat going, or Simon would strum a few chords, and soon we'd be "doo be doo wah"ing away. Not everything on the album is all that timeless, though. You can sort of tell that "Something Like That" was sort of tossed together. But I think as a whole, the first Nutty Squirrels album holds up as the best LP I've ever played on. Just last week, I was cleaning house, and I found myself singing the vocalizations from "Bang!". Those melodies do seem to find a way to burrow into your brain.

Unfortunately, Hanover Records shut down operations right after the album came out. There was no money for promotion, and they couldn't restock stores if they sold out of them. As such, the album more or less "died on the vine". It's never been reissued, and has never seen a CD release. I've heard rumors that Steve Allen had kept the masters, but lost them in a move in the late 1960s. Whatever the story, I've held tight to my vinyl copies, and kept a few of them sealed. Maybe someday, a reissue label will be able to create a CD master from one.

I was pretty torn up when Hanover went under, but Mr. Burland and Mr. Elliott came to the rescue. They put Simon in touch with some people at Columbia Records, and a few days later, we were sitting in their offices. The meeting started with them saying all the right things to us - how much they loved that "Uh-Oh" song, what a shame the LP didn't take off, and so on. But they eventually got around to business. They had lined up a syndication company that was interested in doing a cartoon show based on a Columbia act, and Columbia thought the Nutty Squirrel characters would be perfect for that. Not only that, but they wanted the cartoon on air as soon as possible. In short, Columbia wanted to sign The Nutty Squirrels, under the assumption that we'd also be hosting a cartoon show. I completely expected Simon to scoff at the idea, but he actually seemed willing to go along with it. "By the spring of 1960, after several delays and reports of problems, Mr. Seville and Liberty Records had ceased discussing the proposed Chipmunks animated series. I was under the impression that they had simply abandoned the project. Thus, an animated series with the Nutty Squirrels would not have been in direct conflict. In addition, I was eager to make a good impression with the new larger record label, therefore I decided to assent to the proposed series."

We both agreed to do the show, since our role in the cartoon was going to be minimal. The TV syndication group had already purchased a stack of completed cartoons from Europe and Asia, and were busy redubbing them with new dialogue. All they wanted from us was a "framing device" - some short Nutty Squirrels animation to put at the beginning and end, to sort of tie everything together. They made it even easier for us by using "Uh-Oh" as the backing sound track to all of the one-minute bits. We did one recording session, said "The Nutty Squirrels present..." three or four times, and that was the entire effort we had to put in to "our cartoon".

The Nutty Squirrels intros were pretty weird. One involved "me" trying to shoot an apple off of "Simon's" head with a bow and arrow. Simon keeps interrupting my archery by taking bites out of the apple, until I threaten to shoot him in the face. At that point he just stands still and sweats as I take aim. The arrow then drops to the ground before I can fire it, and it slowly makes its way across the ground like an inchworm. Simon then picks it up and impales it on the apple. End of cartoon.

 _The Nutty Squirrels Present_ was sent out to syndication in September of 1960. It apparently did OK, at least in the larger cities. The syndicate had some trouble selling it to smaller markets. The small town stations must have considered a cartoon starring beatnik squirrels to be...I don't know, subversive? Something like that. Anyway, I think it was pretty much done playing in repeats within two years, and it was totally forgotten soon afterwards. But as strange as the show was, I did enjoy watching beatnik-me on the screen every week.

While the Nutty Squirrels cartoon made some folks a little money (including Simon and me), its main effect was to light a fire under the rumps of the folks at Liberty Records. They figured if that slapped-together show could turn a profit, one featuring the "real" singing rodents would do even better.

The original idea for the Chipmunks cartoon had been to just animate the drawings that had appeared on the first album and single sleeves. Each of the chipmunks was going to wear different color baseball caps so viewers could tell us apart at a glance - red for Alvin, blue for Simon, and green for me. (Thus explaining Dave's question to us earlier.) But the characters on the albums were rather complex as early 1960s cartoon characters went, and apparently there were issues trying to animate them. This was what led them to put the entire cartoon series on hold.

But once they saw the Nutty Squirrels cartoon, they finally hit upon the obvious solution - scrap the early design, and start over from scratch. Someone at the animation studio sketched three vaguely chipmunk-looking things, probably as a rough draft. The three characters were drawn very simply and distinctly - one short with a baseball cap, one tall with glasses, one chubby. They further differentiated them by using the color scheme for their sweaters that they had originally planned for their hats - red for Alvin, blue for Simon, and green for me. They also drew the sweaters long enough to reach over their feet, which I can guarantee was done to save the animators the trouble of having to draw legs. I don't have an explanation for that weird starfish-blob hair on the top of their heads, though.

Simon and I had another little talk up in the treehouse, and we decided to provide the voices for the Chipmunks show. The scripts may have been locked into the "Alvin gets into mischief and Dave yells at him" mode, but they weren't too bad, and they'd occasionally throw some good jokes in there. One of my favorite ones had Dave threatening to ban Alvin from watching television, to which Alvin responded, "You mean, I can't even watch me?!" That sort of joke would barely be worth a smirk on _The Simpsons,_ but on our show, it was wonderfully self-aware.

One thing we didn't really think much about at the time - the writers of the TV show decided to have David Seville not just be our producer, but our surrogate parent. That was sort of a natural progression from the records, where Dave often sounded like he was trying to discipline us rather than just produce us. Putting us in his home gave him a lot more opportunities to yell "AL- VIN!", which honestly was pretty much the whole point of the cartoon. We were fine with that, but we didn't realize that people would start assuming that this TV show was mirroring reality. That's probably the biggest misconception about The Chipmunks, in fact. I've lost count of how many times I told somebody, "Dave was a good songwriter and producer, and he got us signed to a deal. But no, we never lived with him."

Back in that era of television, it was pretty standard for network shows to have a regular sponsor, which the stars of the show would have to shill for. We had a fairly good sponsor as these things went - General Foods. That meant we had to do quick ads for Jello and whatnot. In addition, there was room for two musical numbers per episode. Most of the time, the studio would use songs we had already recorded (and released) that they had done some animation for. But occasionally they'd have us record a song specifically for the show. They especially liked writing episodes where we visited foreign countries, so they could write us a dumb little number about that country for us to sing.

I didn't really enjoy recording the dialogue for the show. Not only was the cartoon Theodore significantly younger than I was - roughly half my age at the time, actually - but he was sort of a clueless goofball. So I wasn't really playing myself. I actually had to act the part. and I'm really not much of an actor. "More innocent, Theodore," was the direction I was given over and over. That, and "can you take it again, a little clearer?" The director was terrified that our squeaky voices would be too hard for middle America to understand, so he had us read... each... line... very... very... dis-tinct-ly. I usually sounded like a little kid trying to read a difficult book out loud.

One part of doing the show that I did like was working with June Foray. June is one of those mainstays in the voiceover business, who has done more shows and characters than you can possibly count. Granny, Tweety's owner on Looney Tunes? Her. That creepy Talking Tina doll on Twilight Zone? Her. Not only that, but she appeared on a number one single five years before I did! (Dig out your dusty copy of Stan Freberg's "St. George and the Dragonet" - that's her as the maiden.) On our show, she played our befuddled neighbor Mrs. Frumpington. A rather thankless role, but she gave it all she got, and her performances always inspired me to do better on my own lines. June was great to chat with between takes, and she's almost as short as me, to boot. We didn't hang out outside the studio or anything, but I always had fun when she was there with us.

The Chipmunks cartoon finally debuted in the fall of 1961 on CBS-TV, in prime-time, no less. And it wasn't until then that I saw that the title of the cartoon wasn't T _he Chipmunks Show_ , or even _Alvin & the Chipmunks_.

It was _The Alvin Show_.

I'm sure if I had asked, they would have told me that the title wasn't meant as a slight against Simon and me. That they didn't want to call it The Chipmunks Show because that sounded like a nature show, and that the name was referencing Alvin taking over the show in the opening montage. But back then, I was pretty much convinced that it was given that name in retaliation for Simon and me doing the Nutty Squirrels cartoon. To make matters worse, in several of the musical segments, they have me playing bass, and Simon playing drums! I'm sure the script just said "the Chipmunks are playing instruments", and the animators didn't know (or care, really) who played what. But it was hard not to take that sort of mistake personally.

Once the cartoon debuted, the "rebranding" of the Chipmunks began. All of our previous albums and singles were rereleased with new picture sleeves featuring our TV likenesses. The new artwork was simple and rather flimsy, but it did do a better job at tying the "Chipmunks brand" together. The picture sleeves with the old artwork have become harder and harder to find as the years have gone on, and a lot of people aren't aware there even was an earlier (and more accurate) artistic rendering of the Chipmunks. In fact, one friend of mine came across one of those old-style record sleeves at a flea market a few years back. He bought it for me, thinking it was "some kind of weird bootleg" that I'd enjoy owning.

At the same time the new sleeves arrived at record stores, other Chipmunks merchandise began showing up in other shops. There hadn't been much in the way of Chipmunks items for sale up until that point, in part because there was no easy way to tie it back to us. ("Look, everybody - it's those cheeky Chipmunks that sing those songs on the radio!") But the cartoon instantly gave us an easy-to-identify visual. Stuffed animals, coloring books, drinking glasses and more began showing up in stores. And thanks to Simon's far-sighted contract negotiations, we three brothers saw our trust funds begin growing faster and faster. To all those people in the early sixties who bought the Chipmunks trace-and-color books, or the full set of Chipmunks Soaky soap dispensers, belated thanks!

There was one rather bizarre thing about those early promotional items. A lot of the time, the color scheme was all wrong. There are several toys where Alvin wears yellow, or where Simon and I have each other's colors on. This seems especially confusing to people now, since the cartoon is clearly in color. Couldn't the manufacturers have just watched the show, to see what colors to paint the characters? Well, here's the weird reason why: although the cartoon was shot in color, it was originally broadcast in black and white. Color standards for television hadn't quite been settled on yet, so we didn't appear in color on TV for another few years. In other words, at the time, no one but the animators really knew what colors we were wearing - not even us!

I never met the guy who drew that first sketch of Alvin, Simon and me. If I ever did, I'm not sure what I'd say to him. Did he have any idea that that chicken scratch he made would end up being my public persona for over five decades? Then again, I'm pretty sure I've made far more money off of his picture than he ever saw. Maybe I should be thanking him, and taking him out to dinner.


	11. We're Not Mice - We're Singing Chipmunks

The first part of 1960 was an incredibly busy time for me. I was now in two music groups that were signed to major labels, and I was helping to develop all of the material for one of them. And this was all happening while I was still in high school. I was fortunate that I didn't have any late night gigs or anything to interfere with my studies, but being in two music groups was still a major distraction. It was hard to concentrate on a chemistry lab assignment when a new Nutty Squirrels song was racing around my brain. I never blew up the lab or anything, but my grades kept hovering at a level that Mrs. Gorman found "a little disappointing". I didn't get too much grief from her, because Alvin's grades continued to be worse than mine. This meant that he got the bulk of her disapproving lectures. As the saying goes, sometimes you don't have to outrun the bear - you just have to outrun the other guy.

Early in 1960, in addition to the Nutty Squirrels LP coming out, the second Chipmunks album was also released. It's tempting to assign some blame here, as if Liberty was looking to undercut Hanover. But I really don't think that was the case. Liberty and Hanover actually chasing two different markets. And unfortunately, both albums sort of missed their targets. After the Top Five success of the first Chipmunks album, I'm sure everybody at Liberty was hoping for a repeat performance. Instead, the album didn't even crack the top thirty.

 _Sing Again With the Chipmunks_ featured a bunch of those country-tinged kid-friendly songs we had been recording - "Home on the Range", "I've Been Working on the Railroad", "I Wish I Had a Horse". One thing I liked about the album (in its original form, anyway) was that the lyrics were printed on the back cover. That was probably Liberty attempting to mimic the _Sing Along With Mitch Miller_ albums that were selling like hotcakes at the time. It did make the album seem more like a children's album, since kids could read and sing along with us as the record played.

It was just as well that we didn't have to do any promotion work for the Chipmunks album, because Columbia immediately started asking for new Nutty Squirrels material. Simon spent a bit of time mulling over the direction he wanted the album to go. "While I am steadfast in my belief that the debut album was quite well done," remembers Simon, "I also felt that it would behoove us to attempt a slightly different direction for the follow-up LP. We most likely were not going to achieve success with songs entitled 'Mm-Hm' or 'O-Ho'. I contemplated how we might build upon what we had already done, and perhaps nudge it in a slightly different direction. And one obvious alteration would be to add more musicians."

It was clear we were going to need jazz musicians for this project, and we didn't actually know any other than Jack. So, once again, Simon reached out to Sascha Burland and Don Elliott. We told them our plans for our next album, and they were more than happy to give Simon a list of jazz musicians who they felt might be interested in taking part.

Simon's first call went out to a saxophonist that he had recently grown to love. "I had purchased a few records featuring Julian 'Cannonball' Adderley, and enjoyed them immensely. He played with a very 'warm but cool' tone, and felt he'd make an excellent addition to our next album." Simon goes on to admit, "I was hesitant to contact the man, as I felt he would consider our project too frivolous to partake in. But his phone number was on the list that Messers Burland and Elliot gave to me, so I decided that I should commence my search there." To our shock and delight, he agreed to record with us, and even helped round up some other musicians for the album sessions.

As fate would have it, we were only able to record one song with Cannonball before his other obligations pulled him away. But, as I like to remind myself, that's one more song than most musicians got to record with him. That song, "Yardbird Suite", also features some of the most fast-paced scatting Simon has ever done. "I practiced my vocal part continuously for a week," he confesses. "I felt intimidated. Mr. Adderley was a jazz musician who, if not world-class at the time, was certainly on his way to becoming so. And I was a not-quite-eighteen-year-old chipmunk best known for singing backing vocals on a Christmas novelty song. I felt it necessary to prove myself worthy of being on the record, even if it was technically my record."

That said, "Yardbird Suite" isn't one of my favorites. Cannonball plays some great sax, and Simon's part is excellent (and I don't think I'm half-bad, either). But the song just never comes together for me. It's just cool solo, cool solo, cool solo - it never really gels into a great song the way that "Salt Peanuts" did. It either sounds like jazz musicians are intruding a bit on the Nutty Squirrels, or the Nutty Squirrels crashed a good jazz date.

After recording "Yardbird Suite"' we recorded a pretty good version of "Bye Bye Blackbird". The fact that these first two songs had bird-related titles gave Simon an idea. "It was happenstance at first," as Simon tells it. "But after the first two songs had been recorded, I decided to attempt to do a full album of songs with avian-themed titles." We dredged up a couple more songs with bird-related titles, like "When the Red Red Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbin' Along", and started arranging them to fit the Nutty Squirrels "feel". We left a few of the lyrics in, but mainly stuck with the "doo wah" scatting we had done on the previous album. We also wrote some new numbers, and gave them bird-type names. Since they were instrumentals, we didn't have to worry much about whether the titles were "fitting" or not.

It seems all siblings enjoy arguing about some trivial thing over and over, often long after there's any need to. And if you want to watch Simon and I launch into a ridiculously pointless debate for about an hour or so, you just need to get us both in the same room, and then bring up the name of the last song on the Birdwatching album - "That's Owl, Brother!"

"It's a dreadful title," Simon maintains. "It's not just a pun - it's a terrible forced pun. And were you not my brother, I would never have allowed you to talk me into using it." He said more than that, but I'm sure you get the idea.

One Thursday evening in July 1960., Alvin had gobbled down his dinner and scampered off to go hang out with his friends. Simon and I were eating at a more leisurely pace, and I was starting to think about the ice cream flavors in the freezer, when the phone rang. Since the Alvin Answering Service wasn't around, I took it on myself to go into the kitchen to answer the phone.

"Gorman residence - this is Theodore."

"Oh," a voice wailed. "I am so sorry!" The woman said more, but between her sobbing and the long-distance connection, I couldn't make anything out.

"Hold on," I said loudly, and hopefully clearly. "Let me put Mrs. Gorman on." I put my paw over the receiver (or as much of it as I could) and turned back to the dining room. "Mrs. Gorman! " I called. "Telephone! I think it's urgent!"

"Heavens," Mrs. Gorman said, hurrying to the phone. I handed her the receiver and watched her say "Hello?" in a worried voice. Part of me wanted to stay to see what the problem was, but Mrs. Gorman had drilled enough manners into me. I went back to the dining room, giving her the privacy she probably needed. After all, she'd tell me what was going on eventually.

Simon and I didn't have long to wait. Mrs. Gorman came back in the room a few minutes later, crying, and told us the whole story.

Mrs. Gorman had a sister named Dorothy Gurtz. Like Mrs. Gorman, Dorothy had married but been widowed early on, and never had any children. She decided to remain in her husband's town of Grand Island, Nebraska, and go back to teaching first grade. She and Mrs. Gorman exchanged letters every week, and Dorothy's letters usually ended "my best to the chipmunks".

Earlier that day, Dorothy had apparently suffered a stroke, and was partially paralyzed. She was in the hospital, but the doctors had been unable to stabilize her.

Simon and I sat next to her as she told us all this, our paws gently on her hands. "Are you going to go...be with her?" I asked.

"Oh, Theodore," Mrs. Gorman said. "I don't have the money to do that."

"Perhaps not," said Simon. "But we do."

"What? Oh no, boys. I can't take your money."

"You will not be taking it, Mrs. Gorman," said Simon. "We will be giving it to you. Tomorrow morning, I will talk to our trust manager about making an emergency withdrawal, and we will get you on the train by tomorrow evening."

It ended up being a strange evening of Mrs. Gorman crying and occasionally insisting that we didn't have to do this, and Simon (and I) very firmly stating that we wanted to do this for her. Eventually, we got her to agree, and sometime around three o'clock the next afternoon, all three of us were waving her off as the City Of Los Angeles train took off from the station.

On the taxi ride back home, I started thinking. Alvin was probably going to be completely invisible for the next week or so with Mrs. Gorman gone. I wouldn't have been surprised if I hadn't seen him at all. But Alvin actually stuck close to home, pitching in with extra chores, and even making dinner for us a couple of nights. (It was just peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but still - it was dinner.) "I felt guilty," Alvin said. "And I didn't even know what about. It's not like I caused Dorothy's stroke or anything. But I felt like I needed to be a good little chipmunk. For the time being, anyway."

Alvin went so far as to join us down in the basement for the first time in months. "This is going to sound dumb," Alvin says, "but I had never noticed that Simon had built a new guitar until then. I just assumed he was using my old yellow one. And the sound was so much better on the new one." Simon handed the guitar to him, and dusted off his bass that he hadn't played in a while. Then we ran through some of our old set list. "Maybe because I hadn't played with your guys in so long, or maybe it was me playing the new guitar, or me feeling the way I did that week. But it was really emotional. The music hit me hard. Even something really basic like 'Honky Tonk' seemed to sound so much better than how I remembered it."

"After playing with you guys that night," Alvin remembers, "I didn't hate the Nutty Squirrels anymore. Because, y'know, I finally got it. It was that magical musical stuff we used to do. You and Simon were still doing it." He smirks. "It still made me sad, because I wasn't a part of it. But, of course, I didn't apologize or ask to join the group or anything. I was still AL-VIN, after all."

The third Chipmunks album came out near the end of 1960. All of the songs on _Around the World With The Chipmunks_ were written with the cartoon in mind, which was still almost a year away from its debut. We actually had to add some additional spoken parts at the start of each song, so the songs on the album would make a bit more sense. Dave would explain we were in France or Saudi Arabia or whatever, which would set the scene a little. Otherwise, listeners would probably wonder why we were singing that we wanted a camel, or why we were arguing with an Italian gondolier.

"This album wasn't that bad," says Alvin, looking at it for the first time in a decade or two. "The songs were sort of different from what we had been doing. The lyrics were silly, but that was part of the charm, really."

Simon shakes his head. "There may be some minor but pleasant ditties on that record, but I still shudder at the mention of it. Mainly due to one song - 'Japanese Banana'. From the moment I saw the sheet music, I loathed it, and it has been my least favorite Chipmunks song since that time. I do not recall why I did not opt out of participating in it, but I heartily wish I had."

As for me? I guess I'm more on Alvin's side. Sure, some of the lyrics are silly. But we were still aiming for the children's market, and silly is something of a virtue there.

Since the cartoon wasn't done yet (and they weren't entirely sure other changes wouldn't be made), they used the old style drawings for the sleeve. And whoever drew this one did a much better job than anybody else had done. They almost got Alvin's face right, and our body proportions were more like they are in reality. They even had us the right size - coming up to about Dave's chest. Alvin is wearing a red sweater, and I've got a green one on, so they at least got those two colors to match the cartoon ones. (Simon's is orange - maybe his blue one in the laundry.) But I have no idea what's going on with the drawing of Dave. He looks almost like Cartoon Dave's drunk older brother, screaming out the open door as Alvin surfs on the airplane's tail. Maybe Cartoon Dave had a few too many cocktails at the bar.

And, as always, all three of us chipmunks were naked from the waist down. And I feel I need to address this point really quick.

I do understand. It's a cartoon. It doesn't have to be just like reality. But it's amazing to me how, through five decades of cartoon renderings, from pencil drawings to CGI movies, not once did anybody feel the need to give us pants. And since these images have become the public's image of us, I'd like to make the following uncomfortable-but-necessary proclamation.

Alvin, Simon, and Theodore Chipmunk all have functioning genitals.

But we keep them covered up with pants when we are in public.

Thank you.


	12. That Goes For Squirrels, Too

I'm assuming no teenager actually looks forward to going back to school after the summer break. But in September 1960, I was a chipmunk musician who had to drag his tail back to start his senior year of high school...all while my partner got to stay home and work on music all day without me. On my first day, after suffering through geometry class first thing in the morning, I blearily made my way to physics class, cursing myself for getting all the heavy-thinking subjects at the start of the day. Using my new geometry book as a booster seat, I settled in to a seat near the back, pulled out paper and pencil, and attempted to get my brain in gear.

I took a second to look around, and noticed the guy next to me was staring. This wasn't any surprise, really. Most students sort of gaped at us, at least until they got used to us scurrying around a bit under their line of sight. For most of my school years, I used to shrink from those looks. But after a couple of years of being a successful musician (as well as many more years being a brother to Alvin Chipmunk) I started responding to them. Not in an angry way, but just in a "yeah, I'm a chipmunk in your school, deal with it" sort of way. I'd usually just try to engage them in meaningless conversation. This would sort of nudge people into dealing with me as...well, as something like a person, not as some sort of freak.

So I looked directly at this guy staring at me, and said the first vaguely conversational thing that entered my mind. "So, think the Dodgers are gonna catch the Pirates this year?"

The guy blinked at me and said "...what?"

I sighed. Even with all my elocution classes, some people still had trouble understanding us when we first spoke to them . They needed to "adjust their ears", or so we were taught. So I repeated, "The Dodgers. You think they're gonna catch the Pirates this year?"

The guy blinked again. "...you a Dodger fan?"

This time, I blinked back. I wasn't expecting that sort of response. "You bet'" I finally answered. "Any team that moves three thousand miles to play in my town is all right with me."

For the third time, the guy blinked, then reached out his hand. I tentatively shook it (I never had much practice doing that, since hardly anybody shook hands with us) as he introduced himself as Robert Yokomizo.

"We had just moved to town from San Diego," Robert recalls. "And I mean just. We had spent the previous day unpacking, and the next morning, I was trying to navigate a brand new high school. I wasn't expecting to make any friends anytime soon, since Japanese-Americans weren't all that welcome at most American high schools at the time. But then here's this chipmunk, and he's asking me about the Dodgers. And I thought, well, if he's a Dodger fan, he's gotta be OK.

"I've been through quite a bit over the last fifty-odd years," he adds reflectively. "College. Medical school. My internship. Setting up a practice not once but twice. Two marriages. Four children. And now retirement. And through it all, there was the Los Angeles Dodgers...and Theodore Chipmunk."

It's kind of strange, looking back on it. It was only for that one school year that we spent much time together. And during that year, I was busy with my recording, and he had to work at his uncle's restaurant. So it wasn't like we hung out together all that often. But I vividly remember sitting on the lawn outside of school with Robert, talking about Duke Snider and Norm Larker and the rest of the Dodgers roster. And I guess a strong bond formed during that time.

A year later, when Robert went off to live in the dorms of USC, we promised each other that we'd stay in touch. And somehow, we actually did. We wrote to each other every month or so. And after a year or two, the letters began falling into a pattern. First section - react to previous letter's news. "Glad to hear you aced your organic chemistry midterm!" Second section was relating your own current news. And the third section was for the Dodgers. If the season was ongoing, we'd write about that. If it wasn't, we'd rehash what happened last season, or talk about our hopes for the next. And just above our signature, we wouldn't write "sincerely" or "best to the wife and kids". We'd write "Go Dodgers!" Maybe with a few extra exclamation points during the good seasons, or with "(please?)" added when the team was mired in last place. But always - "Go Dodgers!"

The 1961 baseball season ended with the Dodgers still behind the Pirates, and October gave way to November. Simon and I weren't quite done with the second Nutty Squirrels album, and Columbia asked if we might record a couple of Christmas songs that they could put out as a holiday single. They figured since the biggest selling Chipmunks single to date had been the Christmas one, maybe rodents plus yuletide cheer spelled instant sales. Once again, Simon went along with their idea. "Since nothing had been released by Columbia at that point, I felt it imperative to assure the label that we were still willing and eager to work with them. That enthusiasm led directly to them allowing us to pen both sides of the single ourselves."

We cranked out the first of the two holiday numbers in less than an hour. "Nutty Noel" was just a simple happy holidays-type ditty. "Doo doo dit dah, nutty noel to you". We spent a lot longer - several days, in fact - on the second song. We came up with the idea of singing as if we were regular dumb chipmunks (or squirrels, I guess) living in the wild. The lyrics asked everybody not to chop down the tree where we had built our home. "You just want it for Christmas, but we need it all year long." It was a rather depressing song if you gave it much thought. We interpolated both "Deck the Halls" and "O Tannenbaum" into the arrangement, and made sure there was some "doo-wah"s in there as well. This was going to be our first song with actual lyrics, after all, so we wanted something to link it back to "Uh-Oh" and our first album.

We recorded both songs like we did the first album, as a trio with Jack playing bass. I thought they both sounded fine. I didn't think we had a multi-million seller on our paws or anything, but I thought both songs would make for a pleasant and fun addition to the holiday canon.

When we played the songs for the folks at Columbia, they sat listening with frozen smiles on their faces. It was clear that, whatever it was they were expecting, this wasn't it. After both songs finished, they said the songs were "very nice". And I had already learned in my dealings with Liberty that "very nice" meant "will not suit our needs".

Simon sets his teeth when talking about that meeting. "The people at Columbia said they enjoyed the songs, but felt they were perhaps a little 'thin'. Might they take the master tapes and 'beef them up a little'? I envisioned them adding jingle bells, or perhaps some strings in a few isolated places." We gave our consent - I mean, how bad could it get, right?

I honestly don't know how they ended up with the versions they released. It sounds like they isolated a few parts of our vocal takes, and tossed those on top of completely new recordings. Our songs were now swamped with tons of syrupy strings and horns, as well as one of those easy-listening choirs that were so prevalent in the sixties. And when I say "a few parts", I'm not kidding - there are stretches of both songs where our only presence is an occasional "doo wah" in the background. The chorale ended up taking most of the lead on both songs. It sounded like the Nutty Squirrels were guest-starring on a couple of Percy Faith holiday songs.

And much like the cartoon, the Nutty Squirrels single inspired a Chipmunks one. We had mentioned that we were recording sone Nutty Squirrels holiday songs to Dave on one of our Sunday drives to the studio. I can't say for certain if that's what led to a Chipmunks holiday recording session a couple of weeks later, but let's just say I have my suspicions.

Dave worked up an arrangement of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" that featured Rudolph himself singing a few of the lines. This was a little weird, since there aren't exactly a ton of lyrics in the song to begin with. A guy named Johnny Marks sang Rudolph's lines. He pitched his voice somewhere between Jimmy Boyd (the kid who sang "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus") and Mortimer Snerd (Edgar Bergen's slow-thinking puppet). He ended up sounding like a dunce with a bad head cold.

They decided to make the song the latest in the series of "globetrotting Chipmunks" numbers, with Dave complaining about having to trudge around the North Pole. (I think the original idea was to use it for the cartoon, but they never did animate it.) Dave was massively sick with the flu the day we recorded this song, and you can totally hear it in the recording. I think they were hoping that Dave would sound completely worn out, like he actually had been wandering around the Arctic hinterland for several days. Actually, if you ask me, Dave just sounds incredibly bored.

It's a bit surprising that they didn't have us record another holiday song for the B-side. Either they wanted a self-penned number on the flip to maximize their profits, or else they just didn't have time to record a second song. Whatever the reason, the single came out with "Spain" on the B-side. It was the last release to feature the old-school style Chipmunks artwork. It had us three bundled up in fur coats (how redundant) standing next to an incredibly dopey-looking Rudolph. I'm pretty sure they used the same artist who drew the last album, because once more, he drew us surprisingly well. In other words, now that we finally had someone drawing us correctly, that was all going to be thrown out the window.

The single was a pretty big hit, getting up to number twenty-one. And it was already December when the record finally shipped out. Had they gotten it out earlier, it may have done even better. "Rudolph" would also return to the pop charts the following two Christmases, joining "The Chipmunk Song" and "Alvin's Harmonica" as a holiday mainstay. This may have been what finally pushed Liberty into having us record a holiday album the following year.

Unbeknownst to anybody, though, the Chipmunks were done as a pop singles threat. "Rudolph" was the last Chipmunks single to make the Hot 100 chart for the next forty-five years. Meanwhile, the Nutty Squirrels holiday single vanished without a trace. I've met people who were fans of the Squirrels who didn't even know it existed. That's probably just as well.


	13. We Could All Use A Little Rock

As the year 1961 opened, I was busy recording as a member of two very different music groups. But within a month or so, I wasn't recording for either one.

Simon and I finished recording the second Nutty Squirrels record in January. When we submitted the album to Columbia, we gave them our suggestions for what might be the best choices for singles. We thought both "Yardbird Suite" and "Bye Bye Blackbird" had some potential. The label didn't seem overly interested in our feedback, but we didn't realize how little they cared until the album came out.

"Columbia decided not to release any singles at all," sighs Simon. "And I have never seen a promotional copy of the full-length album. This suggests that they did not give much of a promotional push to radio and retail. Evidence suggests that they fulfilled the absolute bare minimum terms of the contract, and then terminated it. It is my hypothesis that once the Nutty Squirrels cartoon did not prove to be a huge success, they had no further interest in our work."

And at just about the same time, the three of us stopped recording songs as the Chipmunks. The animation company had finally finished all the scripts for the cartoon. The musical segments had already been completed, so all that remained to do were the story segments. So our Sunday trips now consisted of us recording cartoon dialogue instead of songs.

Having both my musical pursuits suddenly vanish like that made me a bit nervous. After all, I was in my last semester of high school. I had sort of assumed that once I graduated, I would be devoting all of my time and effort to the Nutty Squirrels. Even when Columbia dropped us, I assumed Simon would simply approach another label about signing us. But instead, Simon dropped something of a bombshell on me - he was going to be headed to college in the fall.

"I had put my scholastic career on hold for two years," he explains. "Once Columbia dropped the Squirrels from their roster, I felt it an ideal time to resume it. I applied for admittance to UCLA, was accepted, and began preparations to recommence my studies."

So now the Nutty Squirrels were apparently going into mothballs, and I literally had no plans for after graduation. I was going to start earning some money from my trust, so finances weren't really going to be a problem. And part of me thought that doing nothing for a while sounded pretty keen - what eighteen-year-old wouldn't relish doing as little as possible right after graduation? But the other part of me was worried. What was I going to do with my life? Was I really going to be a washed-up musician before I even graduated high school?

This question began nagging me during the first few months of the year. And it must have been nagging especially loudly on a Saturday morning when I was flipping through the newspaper. I almost went right by it, but two words in the middle of an ad happened to catch my eye - "build confidence". I repeated the words to myself. "Build confidence". Yes, that was something I would like to do. I looked again, and realized it was an ad for a karate school. I sort of laughed at it, because of something that happened about a year previous.

I had overheard somebody at school saying how much they enjoyed taking karate lessons, so I had asked Mrs. Gorman to take me over to see about signing up. But the instructor had cut me down cold. "I don't train rodents," he had said, making me feel like garbage. When I got back to the car, I just told Mrs. Gorman that they weren't accepting any new students - I didn't feel like repeating what the instructor had said.

So the first karate school I had visited had punched holes in my self-esteem. And now this other karate school was offering to patch it back up again. Ironic, huh? I shook my head and jokingly tried to picture myself - a pudgy chipmunk - wearing a white robe, striking a karate pose.

Then I realized that I actually liked how that image looked.

For the next week, that image stayed with me. Enough that I began arguing with myself. Maybe this karate school was different, I thought. Maybe they'd train a chipmunk like me. Then I'd think, but maybe they won't. Maybe they'll laugh at me just like the last one did. A chipmunk learning karate? Ridiculous.

Ridiculous or not, by the next Saturday, I had worked up enough courage to make the long bike trek to that karate school. When I got there, I peered in through the window. Class was already in session, so I watched through the window until I started to feel uncomfortable. Then I turned around and headed back home. The entire way, I cursed myself for being "yellow". I should have waited until the lesson was over, I told myself. I should have gone in and asked about taking lessons. Alvin would've done it. Simon would've done it. Why was I such a coward?

Next Saturday, I promised myself. Next Saturday, I'm going there early and going in. I made this promise to myself several times a day for the next six days, And the following Saturday, I was up and on my bike just after nine-thirty, wanting to get there before they opened at ten. As I pedaled along, I kept muttering to myself, "don't be a coward, Theodore" over and over.

When I arrived, I was nearly shivering with nervousness, but I forced myself to walk in. There were a few people in the room, but it was clear who the instructor was. I set my jaw and walked over to talk to him. (Back straight, gut in! Pacing, pacing, pacing!)

"Hi...uh...are you the...guy in charge?" (Ugh. Way to make a good first impression, Theodore.) The man just nodded once, and I forged ahead. "Can I talk to you about...lessons?" Again the man nodded, and he led me to a small office in the back. He indicated for me to sit, then looked me over critically. I tried not to feel like a fat lump as he did so.

Finally, he asked, "Why do you wish to study karate?"

I thought back to the ad in the paper, and the mental image of me in a karate uniform. Embarrassedly, I mumbled, "Well, it's kind of hard to explain..."

"Do you wish to learn to fight?"

"What? Oh, no, nothing like that. I mean, yeah, I guess that'd be nice..." "Nice"? Did i just say learning to fight would be "nice"? I was beginning to think that coming here had been a huge mistake. "It's just...I saw your ad in the paper..."

"Yes?"

"...it said 'build confidence'. I'd like to do that. Build confidence."

He smiled and nodded. "Then perhaps we may help you with that. And perhaps you may help us, as well." Before I could ask what he meant by that, he introduced himself as Master Yoshido, and we discussed how much lessons would cost. He then led me back out of the office and, scanning the main room, he called to someone at the far end.

"Scooter! I think we have found you a new sparring partner."

I looked over to that end of the room where more students were getting set up. One student emerged from the pack and started walking over. One wearing a somewhat ill-fitting karate uniform...with a bushy tail emerging from the back. There was a squirrel taking lessons here! He held out his paw, and I shook it. I felt really uncomfortable doing so, because believe it or not, until that moment, I had never met another rodent other than my brothers. "Frederick," he said. "Morris Frederick. But everyone calls me Scooter." He was kind of boisterous but nice.

After the lesson - which I mainly just watched - Scooter took me out for a burger. He was in his mid-twenties, and owned his own plumbing business. He didn't exactly seem the type to be taking karate lessons, but when I asked him about it, he just tapped his forehead. "Discipline!" he said. "Got a tough time keeping calm when things don't go right. Terrible trait to have when you're in the plumbing business. Can't just go whacking on the pipes when you get frustrated. Someone told me to try karate. Gave it a go, and been at it for four months now. Good stuff. Look forward to it every week. Even more so now that you're there to spar with."

"Can't you spar with the other students?"

"Tough to do. They have to keep bending down, and all my straight punches are aimed right where they least want it." He mimicked tossing a punch, and collapsing in agony. "Much better with someone your size. You come early every Saturday. I'll get you up to speed."

By the end of the meal, we had decided that Scooter would pick me up and take me home every Saturday. He had had a plumber's van converted so that he could drive it - seat boosted up, pedals raised up high, smaller steering wheel and controls. It was something we three chipmunks had occasionally heard about but never actually seen. For the first few Saturdays, I was enthralled just watching Scooter drive.

I won't pretend that I was the ideal karate student - I was pudgy and kind of klutzy, and it was hard to do some of the moves that required a lot of leg motion. But I started getting the basics down, and it wasn't long before I started getting a bit of that self-confidence I had hoped to get. I felt a little more comfortable in my own skin, and didn't feel so ill-at-ease all the time.

"Actually," counters Simon, "I would be contrary enough to state that your self-actualization had already begun when you made that sojourn to the karate school. Despite the unwelcoming response you received at the first school, you found the courage to go forth and try again. That is something I would not have expected from Theodore Chipmunk back then."

"It was a change for the better, definitely," said Alvin. "You seemed to like yourself more. You were chattier, friendlier, more fun to be around. And your drumming got better. Not that it was bad or anything before - you were always good on the drums - but it sounded better. Simon and I both noticed it."

It was strange that karate would help my drumming, but without even realizing it, it began changing my approach. Since I was smaller than other drummers, I guess I felt the need to compensate, so I originally tended to smack the drums as hard as I could. My way of saying "I may be small but I can still play rock and roll!" This gave the band a loud drum sound but not a lot of finesse.

When I first started karate, I acted in much the same way. I threw everything into my punches and kicks, which had power but tended not to land very well. Doing so usually threw me off balance as well. Master Yoshido patiently taught me to not put everything into each attack. I slowly got better at keeping my defenses up even as I made an attack move. And as I did so, my technique got smoother, and I started landing more punches on Scooter.

And eventually, these lessons learned started seeping into my drumming. I still played loud, but each drum beat was smarter, if that makes any sense. Before I started karate, I often wore myself out drumming, even when playing shorter sets. Afterwards, I could play for a lot longer. I might still play until I was sweaty and tired, but my wrists wouldn't be killing me the next day. It was completely accidental, but karate most likely increased my useful drumming career by at least a decade or two.

As I pointed out, though, this improvement in my drumming happened just as my musical endeavors looked to be fizzling out. I hadn't forgotten what I had told Simon a couple of years before, - "I want to make music". And, since my two music groups were on hold, it appeared that I was going to have to find other people to make music with. I finally sat down and wrote a want ad - "Drummer Available" - that I was going to put up at the local music store. But before I did, I handed it to Simon to proofread. Simon looked it over, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Allow me to ponder this for a while, brother," he said.

"Really? What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing per se. But your ad has given me the germ of an idea. Let us see where this leads." He left the room with my ad, and with me feeling very confused.

The confusion didn't last long. The next day, Simon approached me with Alvin in tow. "I do not believe you will be needing your advertisement," Simon stated.

"Really? Why not?"

"Because I have located two musicians who wish to perform with you." He and Alvin both grinned at me, and I let out an excited whoop.

Alvin adds, "Simon hit me up out of the clear blue. He said there was still plenty of time before he left for college, and he was thinking about performing with you again. Would I be interested in reforming the live Chipmunk band? Hell yeah, I was interested. I had been jealous of you two performing together over the previous year or two, and I jumped at the chance to rejoin you. Also, like you, I was sort of half-wondering what I was going to do with my life after graduation. And although 'nothing' was tempting, being in a rock and roll band may have been even better than that."

But before we made a move, Simon had a talk with Liberty Records. "While I was not overly fond of the music we were recording, I was pleased with the financial renumeration, and did not wish to jeopardize it in any way. It felt a bit juvenile essentially asking for their permission to perform live, but it ensured we stayed in their good graces. They allowed us to do so under the stipulation that we not perform under the Chipmunks moniker, nor any other name that would directly tie us to the Chipmunk brand. This also omoeant they did not want us performing any Chipmunks songs, but that obviously was not going to be an issue. I explained that we would be primarily performing instrumental selections, and they gave their approval."

Once more, we retired to the basement and began working on material. "We had a couple more years' worth of instrumentals to choose from," remembers Alvin. "'Walk Don't Run', 'Asia Minor', 'Sleepwalk'. And of course we had to arrange them all for our guitar-bass-drum line-up. We'd spend about an hour working on a song, add it to the tail end to our set, then start on the next."

We revived "Chipmunk Rock", and wrote a few more instrumentals to beef up our set. During this period, it was usually Alvin's song ideas that got used. "Your time in the Nutty Squirrels sort of nudged you out of the rock and roll realm," suggests Alvin. "You were still sort of writing for Cannonball Adderley instead of Alvin Chipmunk. I kept saying, come on, brothers - simple melody, easy chord progression, big hook."

Since the songs had no lyrics, their titles usually came out of thin air. "My favorite original was 'Spanish Omelets for Breakfast'," says Alvin, grinning. "I've been trying to remember why we called it that. It did have a really vaguely Latin sort of feel, I guess." Another was called "Butter Pecan Twist". Maybe I was just hungry when I was trying to come up with song titles.

Naming the group itself ended up being far more difficult. "No band name using the word 'chipmunk' was open to us," says Simon. "And since we would be visible to the audience, we could not claim to be squirrels or some other creature - not that we would wish to, in any event. Nor did we wish to use the words 'rodent' or 'vermin', both of which had negative connotations. Given all of that, it appeared we would not be able to use our most defining characteristic in naming the group."

Alvin adds, "In those days, you couldn't be Panic! at the Disco or Margarine Tub Malfunction. Bands were always just 'The Somethings'. So for weeks, we were just throwing plural nouns at each other. The Ignitions. The Fences. The Waffles. I'm pretty sure that last one was your idea."

We finally found our band name while working on a new song. We had started writing an instrumental which was very melodic, so Simon suggested that we try to write some lyrics to go with it. I was the one who sang "we could all use a little rock and roll" for the chorus. Alvin immediately liked it like that, but the lyric made Simon think.

"I was originally thinking that that might be the title of the song, but it was a bit lengthy. So in my mind, I reduced it to 'A Little Rock & Roll'. At which point it struck me. 'Little Rock'. The capital of Arkansas. And also an excellent description of us." We discussed the possibility of taking it a step further and going by The Pebbles, but finally decided The Little Rocks would work better.

Just as we had a few years earlier, we went to a studio and recorded a promotional single. Not only do I not have a copy of that single in my possession, but the three of us can't even remember what songs we included on it. We all agree that a version of the Ventures' "Walk Don't Run" was one of them, but what was the other?

"Man, I have no idea," admits Alvin. "We cranked that one out pretty quick. Was it 'Spanish Omelets for Breakfast'? That's the one that's stuck in my head. I think I would've remembered writing those words on the records, though."

Simon has a potential solution to this little mystery. "I believe Alvin may be correct - it might well have been 'Omelets'. But it is likely the song had a different title then. I do not recall what that earlier title might have been, but very possibly that was what we inscribed on the records."

Whatever the two songs were, they did the trick. Simon took the records out to some clubs, and we were booked only three days later. A nice place called Junior's was just about to lose their house band, and they needed a replacement immediately. We played one fill-in gig, and were hired on the spot. And as soon as we were hired, we had to go do something we had never done as a band before - go shopping for clothes.

"In order to complete the disassociation between the Chipmunks and the Little Rocks," explains Simon, "a new visual presentation was in order. My original idea was to have us dress in identical sharp suits, which is what most rock and roll ensembles did at the time. However, we could only fit into suits made for young children, and such suits tended to have a very juvenile look about them."

After visiting a few stores, we were beginning to get frustrated. I was worn out as well, so I decided to sit on a bench outside while Alvin and Simon went in the last store on our list. When they came back out, Alvin grumbled, "Another bunch of sailor suits," but Simon noticed the look on my face.

"What is it, Theodore?"

I causally pointed at a group of college students across the street, who were busy looking in the record store window.

"Those," I said, indicating their varsity jackets. "Could we wear those?"

"Your idea was an excellent one," admits Simon. "Matching varsity jackets gave us an immediate visual identity, and as outer wear, they did not need cleaning as often as full suits would have."

Alvin also loved the jackets, but remembers the long process it took to get them. "We had to have them custom-made, since they didn't usually make them that small. That at least meant they fit really well when we got them. But we had to play our first few gigs as the Little Rocks in our button-down shirts and slacks, as we waited for the damn things to show up in the mail."

There was a fair amount of arguing before we placed the order. "Alvin was rather keen on obtaining a red letter jacket with a yellow A," recalls Simon. "In other words, his new look would closely mirror his cartoon television counterpart. This of course was precisely what we were instructed not to do." Simon finally convinced him that we all needed the same jacket, with the same lettering. And eventually, a few weeks later, we all had our blue jackets with a red LR on them.

"I have to say, those jackets were a blast to play in," says Alvin. "It was the only time we really had matching outfits while on stage, and I got a kick out of that."

I actually still own my jacket, somewhere. Probably in a box in the upper level of my bathroom, gathering dust.


	14. And The Band Played On

The Little Rocks began their residency as Junior's house band in April 1961. We performed three sets per night on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. (Once Alvin and I graduated from high school in June, we added two sets per night on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays as well.) And we had our first "regular" right from the get-go - Scooter. He was nice enough to pack my drum set into his van and drive us down to Junior's on our first night. He also stuck around for the first set, and showed up maybe once a week after that. "Not a huge fan of that rock and roll, but I like how you kids play it," he often told us.

We used a set list the first few nights, but we quickly ditched that. We'd just look at each other after each song, and one of us would suggest the next song. "'Perfidia'." "'Topsy'." "'Sugar Mountain Stomp'." The other two would nod, I'd count off the beat, and away we'd go. Our sets got tighter, and if we didn't exactly have girls swooning at our feet, we at least appeared to be giving people a good night out.

Then, one night, the whole thing almost fell apart.

"I used to order a rum and coke as soon as I got to Junior's," Alvin says, a bit uncomfortably. "Standard size. I'd keep it next to your drum set, and just sip it on occasion all through the night. Usually didn't even finish it. No big deal. Well, I had been doing a lot of yard work at Mrs. Gorman's one day, and I showed up to Junior's really thirsty. I ended up downing my rum and coke right away, and then I ordered a second and then a third one. Ran the Alvin charm by the bartender - 'it's OK, of course I can handle it' - and more or less polished that third one off just as we started out first number."

Simon and I didn't see Alvin slam down three drinks in such a short time, but we started noticing the effects a few songs into the first set. One of his solos was a bit sloppy, then he missed a fairly obvious chord change in the next song. I noticed Simon staring at him more and more. But things finally fell apart when Alvin dropped behind the beat on "Honky Tonk", a song he should have been able to play in his sleep.

As that song limped to a close, amid a smattering of polite applause, Simon walked up to the microphone and announced, "Thank you. There will be a short intermission." Alvin tried to call out the next number, but Simon threw off his bass, then tore at Alvin's guitar until the strap came undone, and the guitar clattered to the stage. Then Simon grabbed him by the ear and dragged him offstage. (Simon later told me he had dragged him off by his ear "because I was unable to easily reach his tail.")

"Simon hauled me off to a storage room in back, closed the door behind us, and just started laying into me," admits Alvin. "I tried talking back a bit, but he wasn't having any of it. He shouted, yelled, jabbed his finger in my chest. Told me I was ruining everything, how could I do this to you and him. By the end of his rant, I was crying. Like, literally sobbing. I had tears running down my cheeks. Probably in part because the rum had kicked in, but mainly because he was doing a great job of making me feel like shit."

Simon shakes his head. "I was livid, no question. I unleashed on him as I never had before or since. But I also believed that exaggerating my rage might solidify the message. Once he began crying, I decided he had truly comprehended the consequences of his actions. I took him out into the alley, let him vomit up the drinks, then led him to the diner next door for coffee. He had never had coffee before that night, but I forced him to drink it regardless."

Meanwhile, I was left sitting behind my drum set like an idiot, so I slipped off to the bar and had a Coke. But long after I thought my brothers would've returned, I was still sitting there by myself. The bartender and patrons began glancing over at the stage area, then at me, rather pointedly. It got uncomfortable enough that I finally got back up on stage. I wasn't sure what I was going to do - a fifty-minute drum solo? - but I spied Simon's bag off to the side of the stage. Curious, I dug inside, and pulled out his ukulele. We used to be a song or two where Simon played ukulele, but those had long since been dropped from our set list. Apparently, he had never bothered to take it out of his bag.

It'd been a while since I played one of these things. Could I still do it? I quickly checked the tuning, and then quietly strummed a chord. Hm, maybe. I looked up, and the crowd was watching me expectantly. Well, no backing out now. I walked over to Alvin's microphone and started talking.

"Uh, hi, folks! The other two Little Rocks will be back in just a bit. But in the meantime, I'm going to do something I've never done on stage before - play the ukulele." This brought both sympathetic smiles and worried looks from the crowd. "Um, maybe you can help me out with the words, if you know them."

I stepped back a bit, took a deep breath, and tried to remember the chord changes. Nodding my head, I began strumming, taking the song quite a bit slower than I had the last time I played it, almost a decade before. I bopped my head along, then stepped up to the microphone and started singing.

 _"Way down in the Congo land lived a happy chimpanzee  
She loved a monkey with a long tail  
Lordy, how she loved him  
Each night he would find her there  
Swinging from the coconut tree  
And the monkey gay  
At the break of day  
Loved to hear her chimpie say..."_

I looked out at the audience with a look somewhere between expectation and desperation. Thankfully, a few folks joined in.

 _"Aba daba daba daba daba daba dab, said the chimpie to the monk.  
Daba daba daba daba daba daba dab, said the monkey to the chimp..."_

I must have looked relieved, because a few more people joined in as the chorus went on.

 _"...then the big baboon, one night in June,_  
 _He married them, and very soon,  
They went upon their aba daba honeymoon!"_

"After Alvin finished his coffee," Simon recalls, "I marched him through the alley and back into Junior's. I was somewhat bewildered when I heard music and singing. It wasn't until I drew closer that I recognized 'Aba Daba Honeymoon'." Simon grinned. "And I was impressed. Not so much at your rendition, but in the attempt. Six months previous, Theodore Chipmunk would never have ventured an attempt entertaining a crowd alone. Clearly your self-confidence had increased significantly."

Impressed or not, Simon mainly looked angry as he and Alvin got back on stage during the applause after my solo turn. I put the ukulele back in the bag, and watched as Simon snatched the guitar from the stage before Alvin could get to it. Simon then indicated for Alvin to take the bass. I took my place back behind the drum set, wondering what was going on.

Simon stepped up to the microphone. "I apologize for the delay, ladies and gentlemen. We would like to perform some songs we recorded a year or two ago." He turned back to me and said, "Uh-Huh". The Nutty Squirrels song? I pulled in my microphone close to me, and tried to remember how that song went - it had been at least a year since I had played it, after all. Simon turned to Alvin and told him the basic bass pattern. "Try to keep up, and above all, stay out of our way," he hissed.

We got through that one pretty well, with Alvin quietly and unobtrusively picking out the bassline. Then Simon called for "Uh-Oh!", and after that, "Salt Peanuts". Simon must have decided that Alvin had sobered up enough after that number, as he unslung the guitar and handed it hack to him. Alvin still looked a bit sick but mainly looked relieved at that point. His playing was a bit restrained for the rest of the night, and he let Simon and me call out all of the song selections. But we at least finished the set on solid ground.

We didn't talk about it on the cab ride home, other than for Simon to say "That is not happening again." Alvin just looked miserable and nodded.

"I switched to plain Coke after that," said Alvin. "Any time I was tempted to have a drink during a gig, I'd hear 'Aba Daba Honeymoon' run through my head. I had a couple more run-ins with drinking later on, but never on stage."

As the summer went on, I start mulling over the idea of finally placing that personal ad that I had written, in an attempt to get more drumming work. But for all those positives that Simon saw, there was one big negative (well, besides me being a chipmunk) - I had no way to get me and my drums to a gig. I couldn't call Scooter to drive me around any time I needed a lift, and although my drum set would fit into some of the largest taxis, I couldn't count on lucking out and hailing one every time.

So I asked Scooter one Saturday after karate - how had he gotten his van retrofitted? How much did it cost? And would I be able to get one for me?

Scooter said all that wouldn't be too much of a problem, but he pointed out that there was still one more obstacle - I didn't know how to drive. "Not much use in having a truck done up for ya if you can't drive it, now, is there?" he said. So he made me an offer - pay for his karate lessons for the rest of the summer, and he'd teach me to drive in his van. That sounded like a good plan to me! And so, every Saturday for the rest of the summer, Scooter and I would go to karate class, eat lunch, and then head out to a vacant parking lot where he taught me to drive. He may not have been the best instructor - he tended to get a little overexcited if he thought I was even close to making a mistake. But still, he got the job done. He also helped me find a green 1958 Chevy pickup truck, which we took to this repair shop to be retrofitted. And by the close of August 1961, I was a fully-licensed driver with his own truck.

I finally did post an ad at the music shop in early August, but not my "Drummer Available" one. Instead, Alvin and I were looking for a replacement bass player for The Little Rocks. Simon was about to start school a fair distance away, and wouldn't be available anymore. I think we got five responses to the ad. Two of the guys weren't very good, and two of the others had no interest in playing with a couple of chipmunks. And that left one guy - Skip.

Like Alvin and me, Skip was a recent high school graduate hoping to "make it" as a musician. He was eager to join the Little Rocks, but he had a few strikes against him. He had played in a band in high school, but he had never played anything but school dances. Also, Skip was used to being one of six musicians on stage, and he found it a little daunting at the prospect of suddenly being one of three. He couldn't just unobtrusively slip into the background, especially being so much taller than his bandmates. But we decided to see if we could make things work.

Skip may not have been an incredible musician, but he tried to make up for it by being really focused. He came to our gigs, carefully watching Simon as he played each song, taking notes, and practicing. During Simon's last week, he traded off with him on bass at the Little Rocks gigs - first just doing the easiest songs, and gradually doing more and more of the songs as the week progressed. And by the last gig, he was set to take over.

The last weekend of August, I drove Simon and his stuff to the dorms at UCLA - my first time being separated from my brother for any real length of time. And it hurt, a lot. I thought I was prepared for it, but emotionally I was a wreck. For the first few nights he was gone, I just lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, missing him.

The following Tuesday, we had our first gig at Junior's with just Alvin, me and Skip. Skip had lettered in track and field, and so he wore his varsity jacket to the gigs, even though the color scheme was different from ours. He had obviously been practicing all weekend, and he played better than we had ever seen him play. Our sets were tight, and the crowd responded well.

...and it wasn't right. That's what I kept thinking the entire night. It just wasn't right.

I spent another sleepless night mulling it over, and finally decided that I was simply too attached to Simon. After all, I had played precisely one song without Simon up until he was about to leave - "Almost Good". If I was going to pick up additional gigs as a drummer, I was just going to have to get used to playing with different people.

So the next night, I sort of pushed myself into a new mindset. This band wasn't now The Little Rocks with a guy filling in for Simon. This band now was The Little Rocks. It was different, sure, but this is what it was now. I still missed Simon a lot, but I stopped viewing Skip as a bad substitute for him. He was his own guy, with his own contributions to make. And day by day, the gigs started getting more enjoyable again.

That said, there was a bit of strife brought into the band. Not from Skip directly, but from a few of his friends. They came by a few times to watch, and once during the set breaks, Alvin and I overheard them giving Skip a hard time about "playing second fiddle to a bunch of vermin". Skip half-heartedly tried standing up for us but I could tell he was starting to feel weird about it afterwards. I decided to make a point of telling him he did a great job at the end of the night. I'm assuming it helped, because he stuck with us, and eventually those friends of his stopped showing up.

I called Simon at school every Monday, since we had the night off. His first few reports from college were enthusiastic. He loved his classes, and the other students at least seemed to accept having a chipmunk around. But by the end of September, the shine was starting to come off.

"Classes were still enjoyable - they were challenging, although easier than I had anticipated. But my roommate Phillip had quickly tired of my presence. He labored under a misconception that I was somehow interfering with his social life. He stated he would never truly integrate into college life so long as he was 'the guy rooming with the rat'. Why he persisted in calling me a rat was beyond my comprehension."

To make matters worse, The Alvin Show had just premiered. "I did not greatly resemble my cartoon counterpart. However, my name and voice were identical to his. So students began to ask, and I had to admit that yes, I had voiced that character for television. This aggravated Phillip further, as he now felt that living with 'that stupid singing cartoon rat' was what caused his unpopularity, rather than his rather abrasive personality."

Although Simon managed to make some friends, and to keep things somewhat civil with Phillip, he realized that his connection to the Chipmunks brand was doing him more harm than good. "It was at this time that I created my pseudonym. I took the name for the biological genus of chipmunk - tamias - and corrupted it to Thomas. I then shunted my first name to my surname, which resulted in the name 'Thomas Simeon'. I requested that both students and professors use that name for me, suggesting but not directly stating that it was my actual name. And this helped immeasurably. Even if someone was cognizant that I had provided a voice on the television show, the simple name change was enough for them to view it as an acting role, rather than a portrayal of myself."

The name change ended up following Simon through his career. "All of my professional positions, and all of my published works, have been under the name Thomas Simeon. Which I feel is for the best. Would anyone accept a scholarly work from a Professor Chipmunk?"

But while the Alvin Show presented a bit of a problem for Simon, it proved a non-entity for The Little Rocks. After all, The Chipmunks were three black-and-white blobs singing children's songs, while The Little Rocks were two actual chipmunks and a human pounding out instrumental rock. Occasionally, somebody in the audience might yell out for us to play "Christmas Don't Be Late", but when they did, we'd just shake our heads and smile.


	15. Start To Move Your Feet

I called Simon twice a week, just to stay in touch. Early in October, he mentioned that he missed performing with Alvin and me, and I sort of leapt on that. I suggested that maybe we could play a gig on his campus, or perhaps somewhere nearby. Simon liked that idea, so he contacted the student union about us playing a gig there. Somehow, the student union found an open Monday in October when The Little Rocks (original member edition) could play a lengthy set.

But just as Simon was getting everything all set, the plan hit a snag - Alvin wasn't interested in taking part. "Back then, we were playing twelve gigs a week, with only one day off," he explains. "And then you went and tried to book two more sets on that one day. I kind of hated the idea of having to drag our gear down to UCLA just to slog through our set list yet again."

Fortunately, Simon knew how to get him to change his mind. "He appealed to my ego," says Alvin, "which is usually the best way. He told me how much his friends there loved rock and roll, and that they'd go nuts for our group. He also sort of hinted that there'd be no shortage of girls who might find the act irresistible."

With Alvin now on board, I drove us onto campus that Monday. We set ourselves up on two huge, heavy wooden tables in the student union - one for Simon and Alvin, one for me and my drum set. And at the stroke of seven, we launched into "Walk Don't Run" in front of twenty-five or so curious students.

Ask anyone in a band, and they'll tell you that some gigs somehow end up being much better than the others. The crowd responds really well to what you're playing, you end up feeding off of their energy, and you end up in that "zone". Well, the gig at the UCLA student union was definitely one of those gigs. The crowd grew and grew until the student union was packed. People were dancing and clapping along, cheering like mad after each number. Alvin and Simon swapped instruments in the middle of a set so that we could do a few Nutty Squirrels tunes. And we even tried a few things that we had never done before.

"It is very much a lost tradition," explains Simon. "But it was once common practice for college students to gather around a piano and sing popular songs. This activity was already on the wane when I entered college, but it was still done on occasion. It struck me that the crowd might enjoy singing along with our small rock ensemble, so I suggested performing some vocal numbers for everybody to sing along with."

Alvin adds, "We just sort of decided on a few songs that were popular at the time. 'Michael Row the Boat Ashore' was easy enough - it was slow and easy to pick out. But 'Tossing and Turning'? Not so much. I forgot how the bridge went, so we just played the two verses over and over." We had been playing for almost two hours when Alvin had another idea. "I just yelled 'anybody here play the saxophone?' And one guy standing near me said he did. He ran back to his room, grabbed his sax, and then jumped on the table to join us in an extremely ragged but killer version of Chubby Checker's 'Twist'."

We closed out the set with the sax player joining us on an extended version of "Tequila". ("Finally! With a saxophone!" says Alvin.) We got an extended round of applause, and then the students gathered around, offering three sweaty and exhausted chipmunks paw-shakes and drinks. I chatted with a few students as I sipped my punch, and every last one of them asked the same question - "when are you guys going to play here again?". At first, I answered, "I don't know" but I quickly switched to saying "oh, soon, very soon, you bet".

At least one of those punches I drank had been spiked. Simon remembers, "You returned to the ersatz stage to dismantle your drum set, but you suddenly sat down looking exceptionally queasy. I realized what had most likely occurred, and decided it would be prudent to have you spend the night on campus. I walked you to my dorm room and got you into my bed." As for Alvin, well, let's just say he was up partying quite a bit later, and found a place to sleep on his own.

We were back playing at Junior's the next night. Alvin and I played our tails off, Skip was his typical hard-working self, and the crowd was fine. But it couldn't help but feel like a letdown. Alvin says, "After that gig we had at UCLA, playing at Junior's almost felt like work." Alvin and I stayed up late that night talking. Could we get our gigs to be more like the UCLA one? Was Simon the missing piece, or was it the audience? Could we get more UCLA gigs, or more like them? Would we give up the safety of a Junior's residency in order to get them?

Simon recalls, "The Little Rocks performance at the student center did have a positive effect - my fellow students had become more prone to engage me in conversation. The performance also highlighted that I longed to return to live performing. So when you telephoned asking if I would be interested in doing more gigs on or near campus, I said yes without hesitation."

Simon made some inquiries at clubs, and gave out the last of our demo records. He found one club interested in having us play three nights a week. Simon called to let us know, and he was a little stunned when Alvin and I discussed the situation and then said we wanted to accept the offer...and that we'd move closer to UCLA to make it work.

Moving meant saying goodbye to three things. We had to end our residency at Junior's, and to our bass player Skip. We decided to simply tell them both that we were "moving away". That was accurate as far as it went, and a lot nicer than saying "we'd rather play at this other place". I didn't mind leaving Junior's all that much, but I did feel kind of bad for Skip. He really had tried his damnedest to make it work as part of our group. Luckily, he found an all-human rock group to join not long afterwards.

It was a lot tougher saying goodbye to Mrs. Gorman. I sort of assumed she'd be happy to be free of the last two freeloading rodents infesting her house, but she actually started crying when we let her know. She hugged us - a rarity - and told us we'd be welcome back anytime. I promised I would stop by every Saturday on my way to my karate lessons - a promise that I actually kept most weeks.

I think it was early November when we started our residency at PJ's. Only eight sets a week - two on Thursdays, and three each Fridays and Saturdays. Simon made sure all his schoolmates knew that his band was now playing there every weekend, and it wasn't unusual to see a few dozen students dancing there on any given night. Not surprisingly, though, the pay was less than we had gotten from Junior's. In fact, it was barely enough to pay the rent on the tiny apartment Alvin and I had moved into. But that was fine - our main source of income was still our Chipmunks royalties. And after something of a break in the preceding year, things started picking back up in 1962.

Liberty mainly spent the end of 1961 updating the Chipmunk look. All of our previous singles and albums were re-issued with "The Alvin Show"-style artwork. And once more, "Christmas", "Harmonica" and "Rudolph" made the lower regions of the pop chart. It was sort of amazing how many records Liberty sold with those same old recordings. I remember thinking that it perhaps wasn't that surprising that we hadn't been recording much as of late. Why bother paying for a new recording and promotional budget when they could just put an old record in a new sleeve and sell more copies of that?

We finally did record our first new song in months at the beginning of 1962, and it was notable for a few reasons. For one, it was the first time David Seville didn't pick us up at Mrs. Gorman's for a session. Instead, I was the one who drove us three to Liberty. That may not sound like much of a change, really, but it sort of underlined how much time had passed - all three of the Chipmunks were now legally adults.

Also, the song we recorded that day was also a bit more grown-up than everything we had recorded before. I can't pretend that "The Alvin Twist" is a lost classic. In fact, it isn't even a very good twist song. (I'm pretty sure Chubby Checker didn't lose any sleep over it.) But it was Liberty's first attempt at having The Chipmunks record a rock and roll song...or at least as rock and roll as Dave was capable of writing for us.

"It's stilted," says Alvin. "Kind of has a stick up its butt. It's not loose and carefree like a twist song should be. And when I listen to it, I get the Dave was probably mocking the whole idea. You know, look everybody, Alvin and the Chipmunks are doing a twist song, what a riot, har har har."

When we got to the studio, we listened to the musicians run through the number. It wasn't bad, really, but it wasn't very rock and roll. We offered to play the backing music, in an attempt to give it a better feel, but Mr. Waronker declined. I wasn't sure if that was because he had a specific vision for these songs, or he just didn't like the idea of us playing on our records. But whichever it was, we stuck with their arrangement.

In addition to being a bit more "with it" than the rest of our songs, it was a Chipmunks single without Dave anywhere on it. He didn't yell at Alvin for doing the twist, or introduce it as a fun new dance song - it was just us three singing from beginning to end. Again, not a huge change, but the gap between what the Chipmunks were recording and what the Little Rocks were performing had never been narrower.

Around the same time, Liberty was attempting to get a commitment from CBS for a second season of "The Alvin Show". Word finally trickled down that the show was not going to be renewed. The ratings were decent (despite being on opposite "Wagon Train", a rating's powerhouse) but the show was rather expensive to produce. So it was decided that the first season would also be its last. Simon of course was happy with that announcement, and for the most part, so was I. The paychecks were welcome, especially considering the minimal work I had put in, but it had been interfering with my rather vague mental plan. With the cartoon done, I dreamed of the Chipmunks becoming more and more what the Little Rocks were, until a time when we could be a regular touring and recording rock and roll band.

This dream, sadly, would take a lot longer than expected to become a reality.


	16. AL-VIN!

The small apartment that Alvin and I shared slowly turned into a typical bachelor pad. And I don't mean the swinging hotspot with a waterbed and a parade of women coming and going. I mean the messy neglected dump that parents always worry that their kids' first apartment will be. And I have to take some of the blame for that. After all, I was the type of chipmunk to leave the dishes in the sink until I ran out of clean ones - still am, to be honest.

But then there was Alvin.

Mrs. Gorman had always had a tough time keeping Alvin in line. Only after a lot of trial and error did she develop an unsteady balance of praise, shaming, nagging and punishment. And that combination more or less kept Alvin on top of doing his chores. But once it was just me and him...well, I never managed to learn that magic combination. And because of that, Alvin almost never lifted a paw to keep the place in order. The household chore list was divided into two halves - stuff that I did (usually a bit later than I should've), and stuff that didn't get done at all. At least, until I couldn't stand it anymore and did his chores for him.

"I visited your shared apartment on exactly one occasion," says Simon with a shudder. "That was more than enough."

"I wasn't trying to be mean," explains Alvin with a crooked grin. "And it's not like I enjoyed living in squalor. But a running theme in my life story has been my major lack of personal responsibility. And this was the early and mid-sixties, which was absolute prime AL-VIN time. It was just - AL-VIN doesn't want to clean the bathroom right now, so AL-VIN is not going to clean the bathroom right now. And of course, AL-VIN didn't want to clean the bathroom later, either. So the bathroom never got cleaned."

Unfortunately, Alvin was the same way with money. When rent was due, or it was time for him to pay for his share of the groceries, either he was "a little short of cash right now", or he wasn't anywhere to be found. So it seemed like when I wasn't nagging him about not doing his chores, I was nagging him for money that he owed me.

It wasn't long before our relationship began to show the strain. When Alvin was home, I tended to hole up in my tiny bedroom with my science fiction magazines and record collection, just so I wouldn't get into yet another argument with him. I also started buying just enough food for myself, especially stuff that Alvin didn't like, so I wouldn't have to try to get him to pay for his share. And the drive to the gigs and recording sessions, usually a time of chatter and laughter, had grown silent. The gigs themselves were still fun, but things had gotten tense between us when we weren't on stage.

"Neither of you discussed it, but the tension between you two was readily apparent," admits Simon. "I believe even Mr. Seville was aware that something was amiss, and he was not known for being keenly attuned to our moods and feelings."

There was one bright spot about me fighting with Alvin. It finally got me off my tail to go out and audition for other groups. I realized that only being available early in the week was going to be a major handicap - not to mention, you know, the whole chipmunk-playing-drums thing. Still, I figured it was worth a try. At that point, anything that would get me out of the apartment more often was probably going to be a good idea.

But before I did, I decided to take a cue from Simon. He had successfully divorced himself from the cartoon "Simon" by picking a new name to use, and I decided that it would probably be a good idea for me to do the same thing. People were going to have enough trouble viewing me as a serious musician without thinking of me as being that clueless chump from the cartoon. So I shortened my first name to TD, and added "Henderson" after my favorite ice cream parlor. Professionally, I was now (un)officially "TD Henderson".

With my new name in place, I put ads on some bulletin boards, and answered a bunch of others. "Rock And Roll Drummer Needed", "Jazz Combo Seeks Drummer" - anything with the word "Drummer" in it, really. And for almost three months, I didn't get anywhere. Some refusals were polite - "we need someone available on Saturdays" - and others were less so - "no vermin". Finally, near the end of February of 1962, I managed to secure a gig backing up a vocalist at the Seven Palms. But in retrospect, it was a gig that I probably should have passed on.

The singer's name was Glenda Fox. She was tall, blonde and kind of a knockout. She performed every Monday night singing popular hits, although she also dabbled in jazz and sultry torch songs. Glenda was a pretty good singer, but her real talent was getting the crowd (especially the men) to fall under her spell. Unfortunately, she worked on her band in much the same way.

After each gig, Glenda would sort of strut around backstage while we sat in the dressing room. If she ignored you, that was a sign that you had done extremely well...and that didn't happen very often. Glenda usually found something negative to say to each of us. She never yelled or shouted. It was always smooth as honey, but sharp as a razor. She might lean down towards me, give me a sort of sad sympathetic look, and say, "And TD! My poor little TD. He tries so hard to play those drums just like a real drummer! And I know, TD. The breakdown in the last number is very difficult. Maybe you can practice that part a little bit this week? For me? That's what real drummers do, you know."

I shouldn't have put up with this. I was a real drummer. I was playing rock and roll every weekend for money, in front of appreciative crowds. Hell, I had played drums on a chart record! But there I was every Monday night, wearing an ugly and uncomfortable red suit that I had to have custom made. I'd gently tap and brush my drums behind Glenda as she sang "At Last", hoping I wouldn't be belittled by the singer after the set. And I put up with this treatment for almost a full year.

Why? A bunch of reasons, really. Despite the karate lessons, I was still very much an insecure chipmunk. It didn't take much to make me feel uncomfortable, and Glenda was something of a master at making people feel that way. Also, it was my first band experience outside of playing with my brothers. When The Chipmunks or Nutty Squirrels played together, we'd just make polite suggestions - "maybe you could come in a bit earlier on that solo". I figured other bands would have a different dynamic, and do things differently. I managed to convince myself that Glenda was just a perfectionist, and this was her way of pushing us to be the best we could be.

Had I still been on good terms with Alvin, he probably would have convinced me to quit. Or Simon might have, had I ever talked to him about it. Instead, I just suffered in silence, convincing myself that putting up with this crap was somehow improving my drumming. Thankfully, somebody else came to my rescue.

The Seven Palms featured a different band, and a slightly different sound, every night of the week. Joan Castro was the singer on Tuesdays, and at the tail end of 1962, she was about to lose her drummer. That drummer sat through Glenda's set one Monday in November, and liked what he saw enough to suggest me to Joan. One quick audition later, I had joined Joan's backing group.

Joan wasn't the knockout that Glenda was, but she was attractive in her own way. Her repertoire was more along the lines of gutbucket numbers, Connie Francis hits, and novelty songs. She may not have been as good a singer as Glenda was from a technical standpoint, but her sets were a lot of fun - for the audiences and the band. It wasn't uncommon for all of us to show up early and stay late, just to chat and hang out with each other.

A few weeks after I started drumming for Joan, a couple of us were sitting around a table after our set. I said something to the effect of how much more fun it was playing on Tuesday nights than Mondays. Joan asked why that was, and I told her about Glenda's post-gig ritual of dressing us down.

Joan nodded sympathetically. "Sounds like Glenda's a piece of work, all right."

"She pay you good?" asked Harry, Glenda's piano player. "Just need the dough?"

"No, not really."

"Then why do you stay with her?" Glenda asked.

I started to answer, then stopped to think. "You know what? I don't really know."

"Maybe you should quit."

I mulled it over a bit. "Glenda wouldn't be very happy."

Joan looked at me steadily. "TD, right now, you're not very happy."

Harry said, "Look, TD, you're young...I think." I nodded, and he went on. "So let me give you a bit of advice. Play for fun, or play for cash. Not enough fun, not enough cash?" He made a gesture with his hand. "Don't play."

I smiled and nodded, then gave it some more thought. "I think you guys are right. I really should quit. It's just...I've never left a band before. Do I just...go tell her I quit?"

"Why don't you play one more Monday, then quit right afterwards?" Joan suggested, and that's what I decided to do. Joan and Harry both came to Glenda's gig the next Monday, at my request. I was worried that I'd sort of fall back under Glenda's sway, and chicken out. So when we finished the last set, I handed my truck keys to Joan, and she and Harry carried my drum set out to my truck while I went to the back to face Glenda one more time.

She was in fine form that night, too. After belittling everybody else in the band, she finally turned to me. "And my little TD. Still slapping the drums like a child. Honestly, TD, I despair of ever making a drummer out of you."

I couldn't have asked for a better set-up line than that. I stood up and tried to look as sad as I could. I sighed and said, "Yeah, I guess you're right. You should probably find somebody else to play drums for you." I waved to the other guys and said, "Nice playing with you guys!" then scurried out the door before anybody could say anything. I never saw Glenda again. It meant not getting paid for that last night, but it was worth a night's pay to be free of her.

I was very grateful to Joan and Harry for nudging me into quitting, and for helping me follow through on it. The next night, I bought them a bottle of champagne, and we drank a toast to "new beginnings" before the gig.

After the toast, I looked at Joan and Harry. "I probably should tell you guys something."

Joan looked alarmed. "You're not planning on leaving our band, too, are you?"

I shook my head and grinned. "Nah, I love playing with you guys. It's...well, it's my name. TD Henderson is just my stage name."

"Really? What's your real name?"

"Theodore Chipmunk."

Harry smiled and nodded. "Oh, I get it. Then that annoying Christmas song came out with a chipmunk using that same name."

I looked embarrassed. "Actually, I am the chipmunk on that annoying Christmas song."

"No!" said Joan. "And in the cartoon and everything? And your brothers in the Little Rocks are...?" I nodded, and Joan said, "But that's wonderful."

"Well, maybe, but I can't perform as Theodore. They sort of own the rights..."

"You can't even perform as yourself?" asked Harry. "That seems unfair."

I shrugged. "Hey, I can at least perform. And I'd much rather play with you guys than be stuck playing 'Alvin's Harmonica' every night."

Joan laughed. "Well, I'll take that as a compliment. And don't worry - we'll keep quiet about your little side gig."

Later that night, Joan suggest we add a torch song rendition of "Christmas Don't Be Late" to the repertoire in December. I readily agreed, and they even convinced me to sing Alvin's "me, I want a hula hoop" line. I can't say I liked the song any better, but I did enjoy performing it with Joan.

You may have noticed that I haven't talked much about The Chipmunks for awhile. That's because, for much of 1962, there simply isn't much to tell. The TV series lasted until the summer, but we already knew it wasn't coming back, so there were no new episodes to record dialogue for. We seemed to be selling well in the toy section of the shops, but that was about it. Liberty tried putting out an Alvin Show LP, plus another album full of songs from the show, but neither one sold very well. We also recorded a few extra commercials for Jello. But all told, it sort of looked like The Chipmunks were rapidly becoming yesterday's news - has-beens at age nineteen.

Somebody at Liberty finally noticed that two of our biggest-selling singles were Christmas songs. So in September of 1962, they announced we'd be doing a Christmas album. They decided to steer clear of anything religious, so we were given secular holiday songs like "Silver Bells" and "Over the River and Through the Woods" to sing. We didn't make any suggestions, but honestly, none were needed. The song selections were fine, the arrangements were fairly good, and we enjoyed singing them. There were a few "Al-vin!" moments scattered throughout, but thankfully for the most part, we were allowed to simply sing.

"It was our vocal performance at a Christmas pageant that original piqued Mr. Seville's interest," points out Simon. "And then, seven years later, we were recording Christmas songs for an album release. I was under the misconception that our recording career was nearing completion, and I felt that this album would be a fitting and pleasant conclusion to it."

The album paired ten newly-recorded holiday numbers with "Rudolph" and "Christmas Don't Be Late". It featured one of the few LP covers that I liked - Simon and me looking longingly at our presents under the tree, as Alvin tears his present open...on December 21st. Naturally enough, the album was released in late November 1962, and it moseyed up to number eighty-four on the album chart. It was our first charting album since "Sing Again", but not exactly the huge hit that Liberty was hoping for.

But what the album lacked in chart performance, it made up for in longevity. The label dutifully trotted the album out to the record bins every December, and every year, more people snapped it up. Eventually, it earned a platinum award, which means at least a million people bought a copy. The eventual success of the album probably bought the Chipmunks a few more years at Liberty Records. Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing probably depends on who you ask.


	17. A Roomful Of Chipmunks

When our lease was about up near the end of 1962, I let Alvin know I'd be moving out. I still loved my brother to pieces, but it was clear that we would never be happy as roommates - at least until Alvin somehow grew a sense of responsibility. Alvin made a few lame attempts at saying he'd reform, and do better at keeping up with his share of the chores. But the still-messy apartment spoke much louder than his words did. I started searching for another place to live, which didn't go so well. Not a lot of landlords were interested in renting to "vermin", fearing that it would scare other tenants away. And the few places that seemed "rodent-friendly" were either pretty run-down, or pretty far away from my gigs.

I eventually found a place - in the same building where I was already living, ironically enough. Roy was an intern at the local hospital, and was looking for a roommate. We met for coffee and hit it off pretty well, so a couple days later, I moved my stuff into his apartment on the third floor. Once I was settled in, Roy and I worked out a system. When he was home from the hospital, he kept his keys hanging from a hook near the front door. If the keys were there, I had to keep things pretty quiet. If they weren't, I could practice the drums or play my records as loud as I wanted.

Alvin couldn't afford the old apartment on his own, and so he moved in with a friend of his down the street. This put some distance between us, which helped get our relationship back on an even keel. It's not like we were suddenly best buds again, but we were a lot more civil when we saw each other. That was a relief to me, especially considering we ended up pulling an all-day recording session a few weeks afterwards.

I don't recall what song we were supposed to sing that Sunday - just that it wasn't a very interesting one. But when we got to the studio, we found Dave and Mr. Wanoker all alone in the control booth looking pretty unhappy.

"What's the problem?" asked Alvin.

Dave indicated the empty studio. "Musicians went on strike. We're not going to be able to record you boys today." He sort of half-laughed. "I can't even record my instrumental for the flip side."

"Maybe you can do it a cappella," suggested Alvin, jokingly.

Dave gave him a look, but I laughed at the thought. "Yeah! And we can back you up! Doo doo doo doo..." I sang a bit of a Nutty Squirrels riff.

Alvin and Simon joined in, harmonizing. "Doo doo doo doo..." We dissolved in laughter at the thought.

But Dave wasn't laughing. He was thinking. He suddenly started scribbling something down on a piece of paper. "Are you boys up to it?"

"Up to what?" Simon asked.

"Singing a cappella," he said, still scribbling away. "A lot."

We looked at each other and shrugged. "Why not?" said Alvin.

"On one condition," said Simon, always the businessman.

Dave paused, his pencil hovering above the paper. "...yes?"

"Our pay will be double for this session, as we are acting as musicians and vocalists."

Dave paused, looked off into the distance, then nodded. "That's fair," he said, going back to his writing. And a few minutes later, we were in the studio, huddled around a low microphone.

What followed was a test of both our vocal skills and our endurance. Dave re-arranged his instrumental b-side for voices, and we began the slow process of making it sound like it was recorded by "a room full of chipmunks". On the first go-round, I mimicked a drum beat and Simon did the bassline, with Alvin taking the lead melody. Then Dave played it back for us in big clunky headphones, and we started recording harmony vocals. Lots and lots of harmony vocals. The song got thicker and thicker with us harmonizing with ourselves, and we ended with a big dramatic "this is Alvin's All Star Chipmunk Baaaand!" By six o'clock, our voices were shot, but the song was down on tape.

Then, of course, we had to hurry over to PJ's to play our Sunday evening sets. Not surprisingly, we went full-instrumental that night - none of us had voices left to sing anything. We must have looked especially strange as we exaggeratedly mouthed the name of the next number to each other all night long.

Liberty dredged up "Old McDonald Cha Cha" as a b-side, and put out "Alvin's All Star Chipmunk Band" as a single in early 1963. And although I thought the idea and execution were solid, I wasn't crazy about the song itself. The melody has a sort of pre-rock, almost barbershop feel to it, which made it seem moldier than it really was. And why was it "Alvin's All-Star Chipmunk Band"? We were the only "stars", chipmunk or otherwise, on the record. And weren't we more of a chorale than a band?

I doubt anybody lost any sleep over these random questions, since the single followed in the footsteps of "Alvin's Twist" - not charting at all, and quickly vanishing into the void.

That said, the chart performances of our records (or lack thereof) weren't really bothering me at this point. There was still a steady stream of cash flowing into my bank account. I was saving a lot of it - or, more accurately, I just wasn't spending that much of it. The main things I was splurging on were science fiction novels and records. And a lot of the records I was buying were for our Thursday band meetings at Simon's dorm room.

We had more or less stopped writing original material by this point. That was mainly due to us living apart - we simply didn't have a lot of time together to write songs. Instead, we'd buy records of songs we might like to add to the set, and bring them to the Thursday meetings. We were still primarily an instrumental group, so any time a rock and roll instrumental became popular, one of us would buy the record to bring to our weekly meeting, and we would give it a try - "Memphis", "Wild Weekend", "Pipeline". I would sit cross-legged on Simon's bed and smack pillows and books with my drumsticks as Simon and Alvin would play their unplugged instruments, trying to work out the song as the record played. "My roommate would avoid the room on Thursday afternoons," Simon points out. "And for good reason. It was sometimes necessary for us to play the same three chords for half an hour in our attempt to master a new song."

At the end of 1962, the British band The Tornados had a huge hit in America with an instrumental called "Telstar". We all loved the song, but the melody was played on an organ. We tried playing it once or twice, but with our guitar-bass-drum line-up, it just didn't sound all that great. We doubted anybody in the crowd would even recognize it as 'Telstar', so we dropped the idea of playing it.

Two Thursdays later, Alvin and I walked into Simon's room, and saw him standing by his new toy organ, grinning. "The 'Telstar' song simply would not leave my brain," admitted Simon. "And the more I listened to it, the more I was convinced we could recreate a passable version of it if I were playing organ instead of bass. At last, I capitulated and purchased a child's organ from a nearby toy store."

Simon being Simon, he wasn't content with simply using the organ as-is. "This toy instrument became my new obsession. And the timing was unfortunate. I should have been preparing for my end-of-semester exams, and I certainly did not need a distraction from my studies. But I simply could not help myself. I pulled the instrument apart, and began tinkering with it, attempting to improve the sound." He did a pretty good job of it, too - it sounded more like a musical instrument than a toy by the time Alvin and I first heard it. That day, we not only added "Telstar" to our setlist, but also "Red River Rock" by Johnny & the Hurricanes - an earlier instrumental hit that also featured prominent organ. I may have liked that one even more than "Telstar", mainly because I got to play some rapid-fire drum parts in it.

But when it came to "rapid-fire drum parts", no song could top one that showed up in 1963: "Wipe Out" by the Surfaris. All three of us bought the record and brought it to the Thursday meeting the same week - the one and only time that ever happened. "Wipe Out" was something like a gift from heaven for a drummer like me. We immediately decided to make that our new closing number, so I could go all out and wear myself out on the drum solos.

It wasn't all that often, but sometimes one of us would suggest trying a vocal number. Simon suggested that we try "Walk Right In", which at the time was a hit from the Rooftop Singers. Alvin and I both thought that was kind of a strange choice, since the song is more folk than rock and roll. But we tried it a few ways, and eventually worked out an arrangement that we all liked. For that song, I'd come out from behind the drum set to play the ukulele, and harmonize with Alvin and Simon. It was different from everything else we did, and it helped break up the sets a little.

I was technically still looking for other drumming gigs at that time, but I never found anything permanent. That wasn't really surprising, since the only nights I was available were Sundays, Mondays and Wednesdays.

I did get a panicked call one Sunday afternoon late in 1962 from a jazz-type vocalist named Freddie Walker. His drummer had just fallen deathly ill, he had a friend who had a friend who knew me, he said I was a solid drummer, sorry for the really short notice, but was I free that night?

Part of me wanted to say no. I mean, playing a set with a new jazz band, without even a rehearsal? But the guy sounded desperate, and I'll admit I sort of relished the idea of tackling a challenge like this. So I told him yes, and a couple of hours later, Freddie was helping me unload my drum set from the back of my truck.

The band quickly briefed me on their set list, and what sort of arrangements they did. To help me out, the bass player situated himself further back so he was next to my drum set. From there, he could look over at me and sort of telegraph the changes with his facial expressions. He'd shoot me a look, and I'd '"ta-ta-ta-boom" into the chorus or what have you. It was one of the most nerve-wracking sets I'd ever done, but I apparently did well enough that they had me fill in again the next night while their drummer finished recuperating.

Thinking about it now, it was a bit surprising that I was home to answer that call from Freddie. Since our schedules were so strange (and different), Roy and I were always taking phone messages for each other. I had taught Roy to write either "Theodore" or "TD" at the top of each message, so I'd know if it was a personal or business call.

One day, I got up to find a message for me, and I was confused to see the word "Theodore" above the message "Call Mr Griffin" with a phone number. I was pretty sure I didn't know anybody by that name, but I called the number back expecting it to be a gig call. Then a woman answered and said "RCA Records", which only confused me further. I was positive I didn't know anybody at that label.

A minute later, Mr. Griffin was explaining why he had called. He had had lunch with Sascha Burland recently. And sometime during the meal, Mr. Burland had told him about our Nutty Squirrels project. Mr. Griffin had given a listen to a couple of the Nutty Squirrels songs, and thought RCA might be interested in taking us on. That is, if we weren't currently signed?

My foot began tapping against the floor in excitement. Yeah, sometimes we had issues with our labels. And yeah, I still hated the band name. But recording Nutty Squirrels songs had been where I had felt the most creative. As much as I loved playing behind Joan, or pounding out the solos on "Wipe Out" with my brothers, those first two Nutty Squirrels albums were what I was most proud of. And here was a chance to resurrect that.

But of course, I couldn't just say yes to Mr. Griffin. This was going to have to be Simon's call. So I told Mr. Griffin to expect a phone call within the next day or two, and then I called Simon with the news.

"I believed at that time that The Nutty Squirrels were a completed chapter in our lives," states Simon. "I had given very little thought to that style of music for the past year or two. Had Mr. Griffin called me instead of you, I likely would have refused the offer immediately. But your enthusiasm gave me pause, and so I told you I would ruminate on it that evening.

"I sat on my bed contemplating the songs we had recorded under the Nutty Squirrels moniker, and my eyes happened to fall on the electric organ in the corner of my room. I walked over to it, turned it on, and immediately began singing and playing. 'Doo-dah (organ note) doo-dah (organ note) da-doo-dee-da-doo-dah (organ note)'. A song was instantly flowing out of me. It was a feeling I had not experienced in a long time - the muse of the songwriter."

Simon called Mr. Griffin back and agreed for us to record two sides for RCA. "My spare time was already extremely limited," explains Simon. "I did not want to commit to anything more until I could be sure my studies would not suffer."

I came over to Simon's dorm room the following week to work on new material. We fleshed out the piece he had started to write, and in reference to the Nutty Squirrels return, we gave it the name "Hello Again". Simon suggested we do a version of Toots Thielman's "Bluesette" as the second song, so we quickly worked out an organ-based arrangement for that, as well. A week later, we were in the studio recording the two tracks, and we submitted them both to RCA.

"In retrospect, I feel perhaps that I may have erred somewhere," Simon admits. "Erred in not asking Alvin to participate in the writing and recording sessions. In recording two numbers with a somewhat 'easy-listening' feel for the release. In having both songs prominently featuring the organ rather than guitar. And, in short, in simply hastening the way through the process. RCA had not given us a timeframe for recording, but I more or less encouraged us to complete the two recordings as quickly as possible. No doubt this was so I could resume focusing my attention on my classes. Perhaps had I given the project more time, more thought, more effort, it may have proven to be more successful." Simon shrugs. "Or perhaps it would have failed no matter what we attempted? And it must must be said, I am mainly regretful for your sake, brother. An alternate timeline in which the Nutty Squirrels maintained a regular recording schedule would have no doubt pleased you greatly, but as for myself, I was not unhappy to return to my studies."

RCA put out the single in late 1963, and it sank without a trace. I don't think it was played on the radio anywhere, and I doubt it sold more than a handful of copies nationwide. I never saw a penny from our brief tenure at RCA, but then again, I'm positive we didn't earn one. The record has become so obscure that several online Nutty Squirrels discographies don't even list it. I can accept "Hello Again" not being a big hit, but I do feel that it deserved a better fate than instant and complete oblivion.

At least one nice thing came out of the mini-Nutty Squirrels revival. I gave a copy of the 45 to Joan, and she really liked our rendition of "Bluesette". She played it for the band, and they agreed to add it to the set. They changed the arrangement a bit more, to account for the different instrumentation of their band. But we kept it as a fun duet between Joan and myself. I liked performing pretty much anything with Joan, but "Bluesette" was especially fun to do.

(I should probably mention something here, before I forget. About a year after this, Sascha Burland got yet another label interested in recording the Nutty Squirrels, but MGM wanted an album of cover versions of currently popular hits. Simon and I were pretty sure that Liberty would never allow us do something like that, since it was too similar to what were doing as The Chipmunks at the time. We did give our blessing for Mr. Burland and Mr. Elliott to sign the deal with MGM, and to record the album with other rodents. We even wrote a Nutty Squirrels-like holiday number called "Bingle Jells" for them to sing. I don't know who they got to sing on it, but it's clearly not Simon and me - their voices were far lower than ours. The album tanked, and it's now even more obscure than our RCA single. It was a rather sad coda to The Nutty Squirrels legacy.)

Right after recording a Nutty Squirrels single that vanished without a trace, my brothers and I recorded a Chipmunks single that did the same thing. And this one may have been the weirdest single to ever bear the Chipmunks name.

Snuff Garrett was one of the biggest name producers in pop music during the late sixties and seventies, but back in 1963, he was a staff producer at Liberty. We had never crossed paths with him, since it wasn't like we chipmunks hung out at the offices or went to the company picnics. But apparently, Snuff mentioned to Dave Seville that he'd like to work with him sometime. Dave liked that idea, so he started writing a fun little song he wanted Snuff to work on.

Right around that time, there was a bit of a buzz concerning something called "eefing". It came out of Appalachia, and it was something like a jugband version of scatting or beatboxing. If you picture a guy in coveralls putting his jug down and creating a beat with just his mouth, you'll get a vague idea what it is. It started popping up here and there, including in a novelty song called "Little Eefin' Annie". So Dave decided to write a song about eefing as well. In his song, he meets a guy who can eef, and asks him to teach him how. Dave even went so far as to find a guy in Los Angeles who could actually eef pretty well to go on the record.

But then Dave found out that Snuff didn't really want to work with him. Or, at least, he didn't want to work just with him. Snuff Garrett wanted to work with us - The Chipmunks.

I have no idea how that conversation went, but I'm guessing Dave wasn't thrilled. He didn't hate us or anything, but it seemed his music career was now permanently shackled to ours. Dave rearranged the lyrics of his song a bit, so that it was now Alvin who learns eefing instead of himself. The rest of the song he kept the same, though, so Dave actually does all of the singing. Alvin and I just have some spoken asides, and of course we get to eef at the end of the song.

Note that I said "Alvin and I". That's because this was the first Chipmunks song that Simon didn't appear on. "I was working on my first large-scale research project at the time," he explains. "The idea of taking a day off to do some eefing was not exactly a compelling one." So Alvin and I did the song without him. It's clearly just the two of us on the record - we didn't even try to replicate his lower-pitched voice at all.

Liberty rushed out "Eefin' Alvin" as a single in an attempt to cash in on the eefing craze. They needn't have bothered, though. The "craze" was both minimal and extremely short-lived, and the single sank out of sight. In fact, eefing proved so obscure that I'm sure a few people misread the title on the 45 as "Effin' Alvin". I wonder what they thought the record was about.

With their dreams of an eefin' hit dashed, Liberty sort of threw up their hands and decided The Chipmunks would record another Christmas album. Not because our last holiday album had sold all that well - it hadn't yet - but because it was the only Chipmunks record to sell much at all recently. They rounded up another dozen or so secular holiday songs, and Dave arranged them for three high-pitched squeaky voices.

You'd think we three would have been sick and tired of the routine by this point. But I remember being in a really good mood through these sessions. Maybe it was because Simon was back with us. Listen to my intro to "Wonderful Day", which was a rather crass attempt by Dave at rewriting "Christmas Don't Be Late". That giggle was genuine - I was actually enjoying recording again.

"We three were in particularly good form," Simon agrees. "Even on a song as frivolous as 'Jingle Bell Rock', our vocals sound especially vibrant. I believe the only downside on that particular track was Mr. Seville's forced-cheerful introduction." I would argue that that song cries out for a rockier arrangement than the one we had. But otherwise, Simon is spot on - we just seemed to be singing better.

As a bonus, the album features the first non-scripted "Alvin-ing" since "The Chipmunk Song" half a decade before. I wasn't really looking forward to doing "The Twelve Days of Christmas". I've always considered that song to be something of a slog, where you're forced to sing this laundry list of bizarre gift items over and over. And I guess Alvin felt the same way. When we got to the tenth day, out of sheer boredom, Alvin sang "I'm getting tired" instead of "six geese a-laying"...and somehow Dave didn't notice! We all grinned at each other, and then completely lost it for the eleventh day - we sang about drummers piping, ladies swimming, you name it. Finally, Dave yelled at us and pointed angrily at the sheet music, so we settled down and finished the song correctly. Afterwards, Dave seemed a bit peeved, but I think even he had to admit that we added some personality to what would have been an otherwise dull recording. Play that against any other "Al-vin!" song we did during that period - even "Wonderful Day" - and you can just kind of feel it.

Liberty sent the album out in November, no doubt praying that the album would at least scrape the bottom reaches of the chart again. Instead, we finally got another Christmas miracle. The album flew up the charts, eventually landing at number nine. Not only that, but the first Christmas album sold better than it had the previous year. There didn't seem to be any real rationale for it. I've always chalked it up to a nation desperate for something simple, safe and fun after President Kennedy was killed. But maybe, just maybe, it was because people actually liked the thing.


	18. You Know You Should Be Glad

During the summer of 1963, I caught a song on the radio that I instantly fell in love with it. I could tell right away that it was by Del Shannon - his high vocals were pretty distinctive. I went to the record store to buy it the next day, and brought it in for my brothers to listen to. They both dug it, too, so we quickly came up with an arrangement and added it to our set. "I even got to play harmonica for the first time in years," says Alvin. The song wasn't much of a hit, though, so we ended up dropping "From Me to You" from the set after a month or two.

Fast-forward to the opening days of 1964, when I first heard "I Want to Hold Your Hand". I know I should say that I was a huge Beatles fan from the very first note I heard. Truthfully, though, I thought "Hand" seemed a bit hokey. I mean, they weren't just saying they wanted to hold this girl's hand. They were politely asking for her permission. It seemed almost like a throwback to songs like "A Guy Is a Guy" by Doris Day, where lovers sat on porches and sipped lemonade and "pitched woo". I didn't hate it - the music was as catchy as the measles, for one thing. I just wasn't much of a fan of the lyrics.

Alvin really liked it, though, so he bought the 45. "'Hand' was great, but then I flipped it over," says Alvin. "And the song on the b-side was a monster." Alvin excitedly brought it to our next rehearsal, and I had to admit "I Saw Her Standing There" was a great rock and roll number. Simon agreed, and we worked out an arrangement, with some rather scarifyingly high "ooo"s before the title phrase. By the time we had whipped that tune into shape, it had accomplished what "Hand" had failed to do - it had turned me into a hardcore Beatles fan.

I'm pretty sure it was later that same week that I noticed the label of my Del Shannon "From Me to You" 45 listed the songwriters as "McCartney Lennon". I called Alvin and Simon to tell them this bit of trivia, and we decided to add it the song back in to our set. It wasn't until many years later that I realized that, for a select few people in southern California, their very first exposure to Beatles music was hearing the Chipmunks (in the guise of the Little Rocks) pounding their way through "From Me to You".

It's hard to explain all of the changes that came around that time, if you weren't around for it. A few changes were directly caused by the Beatles, others were more like side effects, and still other changes were probably just happening at the same time. A lot of aspects of my life began changing, too. And not all of those changes were welcome.

For example, sometime in the summer of 1964, Joan lost her engagement at the Seven Palms. The club decided to cut back to having live entertainment on the weekends only. Everyone in the band pitched in looking for another engagement, but the demand for supper club entertainment like Joan provided seemed to have dried up. She finally found a place, but they only wanted to book her for a Friday-and-Saturday engagement, which I couldn't do. I encouraged her to accept the gig, and helped the band find a new drummer. I never played with Joan again, although we agreed to stay in touch. I foolishly asked her out at some point, but she was wise enough to turn me down. And despite the blow to my ego, we remained friends.

The Little Rocks had started feeling the influence of Beatlemania, as well. "Our band started to look a bit old-fashioned," admits Alvin. "Which is kind of ridiculous. I mean, we were in our early twenties, and playing current music. But instrumental combos started to look a bit passé." We would still find new instrumentals to play - I remember adding "Penetration" to our set the same week we started playing "Can't Buy Me Love". But the audiences were starting to respond more to the vocal numbers than the instrumentals. That was a bit of a problem for us. We felt that playing instrumentals put the emphasis on our musicianship, and on the songs themselves. It's not that some people didn't view The Little Rocks as a novelty to begin with (I'm sure they did) but I think we managed to win a lot of folks over with our playing. That was tougher to do with our high-pitched voices. When we stuck with instrumentals, people would hopefully think "wow, these little guys can really play." But as we did more vocals, I'm sure it was more like "aw, isn't that cute - three rodents singing the Beatles."

All through the year, the Beatles phenomenon kept growing, and it eventually hit a point that none of us ever thought it could. David Seville told us he wanted us to record a couple of Beatles songs - "Can't Buy Me Love" and "All My Loving". This was weird for a couple of reasons. First off, we had never recorded covers of contemporary hits. The closest we had come was recording "Jingle Bell Rock" for one of our Christmas albums. And secondly, the Beatles were unabashedly a rock-and-roll band, and The Chipmunks had never recorded anything that you could really classify as rock and roll. And it was that second bit that worried Simon.

"Liberty Records was not unfamiliar with the rock and roll idiom," Simon points out. "Both Bobby Vee and the Marketts recorded for the label, for example, and both acts were rock-based. But for these Beatles songs, we would still be working under the auspices of Mr. Seville, whose musical tastes appeared to have been arrested in the early fifties." But Simon not only foresaw the potential problem - he went ahead and prepared a potential solution. He told us to bring all our gear to the recording session. "I feel it may come in handy" was all he told us. Alvin and I knew better than to second-guess Simon, so when I drove up to Liberty that Sunday morning, all of our instruments were piled in the back of my truck.

We met Dave and Mr. Waronker in the control room. As we watched the string and horn players get their instruments in place, Simon turned to Dave and made an unusual request. He asked to hear the arrangement of "Can't Buy Me Love" first, with Dave taking the lead vocal. Dave seemed confused by the request, but shrugged. He walked into the studio proper, and a few minutes or later, the music began. And from the first note, both Alvin and I immediately began frowning along with Simon.

"God, it was horrible," remembers Alvin. "Well, maybe it was all right for a Henry Mancini album or something. You know, one of those easy-listening albums with a random attractive girl on the front. But as a cover of a Beatles song, it was painful. Dave was obviously trying to 'pretty it up'. But that was the opposite of everything that people liked about the Beatles in the first place."

As Dave finished the song, Simon wheeled around. "Mr. Waronker, our instruments are right outside. Would you allow us to attempt to provide the musical backing?" Mr. Waronker looked skeptical, and Simon pressed harder. "Please, Mr. Waronker. Allow us to do a single run-through, after which you can decide which rendition you feel was superior."

Mr. Waronker sighed. "I suppose. No harm in giving it a listen, right?"

Simon grinned. "Thank you, Mr. Waronker. I have cause to believe you will not regret this decision." We ran out the door towards the parking lot, just as Dave walked back into the control room, looking very confused. But as we began loading our equipment in, we saw Dave standing in the corner, arms crossed, scowling at us. Well, I couldn't blame him, really. We had basically just suggested that we didn't like his arrangement, and that we thought we could do the song better.

A few minutes later, my drums were set up, and I was adjusting a microphone near my head so I could provide backing vocals. Once that was done, I looked through the glass at Mr. Waronker, who gave me a thumbs up. I glanced over at Alvin and Simon, who both nodded back at me. Alvin gave us the key, since the song starts right off with the vocals. I then tapped out the tempo, and all three of us hit our mark.

"Can't buy me lo-ove, lo-ove, can't buy me lo-ove..." Our arrangement had all three of us singing in harmony through the whole song, so I had to focus both on the drums and my vocals for the full two minutes or so. Alvin pulled back from the guitar melody to ape the George Harrison solo, before rejoining the melody on the next chorus.

"Can't buy me lo-o-ove..." The last note reverberated through the studio...and a few musicians behind us started applauding. I stood up, turned to them and bowed in my best Ringo imitation.

Mr. Waronker walked into the studio proper, stared at us for a few seconds, then turned to the musicians behind us. "It would appear your services will not be needed today. Thank you." The musicians started packing their things, and I turned to look back at them. I was thinking that they'd be mad at us. After all, for all I knew, we had just cost them a day's pay. But they all seemed pretty happy for us. Many of them had played on our sessions since the beginning, and I guess they were rather pleased to see us play this music for ourselves.

Once the musicians had left, the engineer came in to reposition some microphones, and Mr. Waronker discussed our arrangement. He suggested that Alvin stick with the rhythm guitar part during the solo section, and we could overdub the solo afterwards. Simon then asked Alvin if he could take the solo instead, and Alvin somewhat reluctantly agreed. "I did really want to cut loose on the solo," Alvin admits, "but Simon was the reason we got to play on the record in the first place, so I decided to let him take it." How does Alvin feel about Simon's solo now? Alvin thinks for a second before answering. "His solo wasn't as flashy as mine was, but his playing style was different. That probably made the record sound better overall."

Once Simon finished the solo overdub, he strapped his bass back on, and we started working on "All My Loving". It wasn't a song we had played before, so we ran through it a few times to make sure we knew the parts. As we finished our last run-through, Dave entered the studio. He wasn't scowling anymore - in fact, he looked kind of embarrassed.

"Uh, fellows, can I do a bit of an intro on this one?" he asked, sounding rather humbled.

We all looked at each other, and I gave a slight nod to Simon. Simon forced a little smile, and said, "Of course, Mr. Seville."

"Great." He had Mr. Waronker join him next to another microphone, and asked us to just go "yeah yeah!" a couple of times when he pointed at us. We nodded, then got into position to record. Dave and Mr. Waronker started clapping a simple beat, then Dave said, in his typical cheery recording voice, "All right, you chipmunks, is your hair on straight?" He pointed at us.

None of us said a word. "...What?" one of us finally asked.

Dave and Mr. Waronker stopped clapping. "Um, is your hair on straight? You know, like a Beatles wig?"

Alvin sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. Mr. Waronker said, "Come on, fellows, give it a go, OK?"

Simon said, "Very well. You have compromised for our sake, so we shall endeavor to do likewise." He turned to Alvin and me and said, "Keep it happy."

Once more, Dave and Mr. Waronker clapped out the beat, and Dave asked his inane question. We "yeah yeah"ed on cue, Dave finished his intro, and we launched into the song. The take was solid if not great. The pace was a bit slow, and you could hear that we were still trying to nail the song. But Mr. Waronker loved it.

"That was really splendid, fellows. I'm glad you had the idea to bring your instruments in."

Alvin smirked. "Told ya we could play."

I was worried that Alvin's comment would spark some unwelcome words from Dave. I immediately said the first thing that came to mind, hoping to change the subject. "Maybe we should have done 'From Me to You', instead."

My interjection apparently worked, because Mr. Waronker turned to me and said, "Why do you say that?"

I shrugged. "We already know that one. We've been playing it since last year."

"Can you boys play it for me?" he asked.

"Sure, I guess. Alvin, you got your harmonica?"

Alvin set up his rack, I tapped out the rhythm, and we all came in on the four count. "Da da da, da da din din da..." We made our way through the song, closing it out with an extended "daaa". Mr. Waronker stared at us each in turn.

"How many Beatles songs do you know?"

"Besides those two?" Alvin began ticking them off on his fingers. "'I Saw Her Standing There', 'She Loves You', 'Please Please Me'. And 'Twist and Shout', if that one counts."

Simon added, "We have also attempted 'PS I Love You', but we were less than satisfied with the result."

Mr. Waronker rubbed his hands together. "Perfect. Let's get started. 'From Me to You' first." He pointed to Dave. "Get over to the store and buy us some Beatles records."

Dave looked confused. "What for?"

"So these fellows can learn enough to round out an album of Beatles covers."

"A whole album?" Dave and us three must have said it at the same time.

"Why not? You guys are more than halfway there just with the ones you already know. Let's see if we can crank this thing out."

We decided, heck, we were enjoying it so far. We pounded out the other four we knew in a couple takes each, with Alvin or Simon adding additional guitar afterwards when we felt it was needed. Then we sort of muddled our way through "PS I Love You". It wasn't great, but it at least sounded better than it had the last time we rehearsed it.

By that point, Dave had returned with some records, and we picked out a few more to do. We stuck with the ones that had already been big hits - "I Want to Hold Your Hand", "Love Me Do", "Do You Want to Know a Secret". During the previous year or two, we had gotten plenty of practice learning songs by listening to the records, so it didn't take much more than half an hour each to get them down on tape.

The final one we tried was "A Hard Day's Night", and that one was a chore. We spent about twenty minutes just trying to get the opening chord to sound right. No matter what we tried, it just didn't sound like the one on the record. We finally gave up, and decided to skip that chord and start with the vocals.

Those last four songs remain my least favorites on the album. The tempos are a bit draggy, and we're a bit hesitant on the vocals, too. We should have gone home and practiced those songs for a while, played them in our sets that next weekend, and then come back to record them once we had them down pat. "I would recommended such a course of action, had I believed the recommendation would have had any effect," states Simon, with more than a little cynicism. "Quality control was rarely a top concern for Chipmunks records. They often wanted the record finished today and in the racks tomorrow, even if that meant an inferior product to sell."

The cover art for the album was typically silly. Our cartoon likenesses are wearing Beatles wigs and playing our instruments...or something that kind of looks like our instruments. Simon's bass looks almost like a sitar, and Alvin appears to have attached his harmonica to the body of his guitar. Most annoyingly, Dave is there with us, playing rhythm guitar and smiling. Dave barely shows up on this album at all - in fact, the entire sound of the album ran counter to his basic idea for it.

With all the solid rock and roll we recorded for the album, I really have no idea why Liberty chose to put out "All My Loving" as the single, complete with Dave's stupid intro. They even put one of the "on the fly" songs as a b-side - "Do You Want to Know a Secret". A few countries in Europe chose to put "Please Please Me" as the b-side instead. Whoever it was who chose that one over "Secret", Theodore Chipmunk salutes you half a century after the fact.

All that being said, this is by far my favorite Chipmunks album from the 1960s. Yeah, it's just us covering Beatles songs, but that's the true wonder of it. Instead of us laying our vocals on top of some children's songs that other people performed, it is in fact the three of us playing Beatles songs. If you want to know what we sounded like at our gigs at PJ's, this album gives you a pretty decent idea. And that's something I can't say about any of our other albums at that time.

The single "All My Loving" was a stiff, but the album was a big hit. It reached number sixteen, making it our third-highest charting album ever. As an added bonus, since we performed the music, we received a larger payday than normal.

With a top twenty album featuring us singing and playing rock and roll, I thought the future looked great for The Chipmunks. I pictured our next album being mostly rock and roll covers, but perhaps we could write a few originals, as well. And now that the folks at Liberty had proof that we could perform well on our instruments, maybe we could get out there and play some live shows as the Chipmunks, too!

It won't surprise you to find out that my prediction was off. But it's a bit staggering how far off it was.


	19. The Future's Not Ours To See

During the summer of 1963, I caught a song on the radio that I instantly fell in love with it. I could tell right away that it was by Del Shannon - his high vocals were pretty distinctive. I went to the record store to buy it the next day, and brought it in for my brothers to listen to. They both dug it, too, so we quickly came up with an arrangement and added it to our set. "I even got to play harmonica for the first time in years," says Alvin. The song wasn't much of a hit, though, so we ended up dropping "From Me to You" from the set after a month or two.

Fast-forward to the opening days of 1964, when I first heard "I Want to Hold Your Hand". I know I should say that I was a huge Beatles fan from the very first note I heard. Truthfully, though, I thought "Hand" seemed a bit hokey. I mean, they weren't just saying they wanted to hold this girl's hand. They were politely asking for her permission. It seemed almost like a throwback to songs like "A Guy Is a Guy" by Doris Day, where lovers sat on porches and sipped lemonade and "pitched woo". I didn't hate it - the music was as catchy as the measles, for one thing. I just wasn't much of a fan of the lyrics.

Alvin really liked it, though, so he bought the 45. "'Hand' was great, but then I flipped it over," says Alvin. "And the song on the b-side was a monster." Alvin excitedly brought it to our next rehearsal, and I had to admit "I Saw Her Standing There" was a great rock and roll number. Simon agreed, and we worked out an arrangement, with some rather scarifyingly high "ooo"s before the title phrase. By the time we had whipped that tune into shape, it had accomplished what "Hand" had failed to do - it had turned me into a hardcore Beatles fan.

I'm pretty sure it was later that same week that I noticed the label of my Del Shannon "From Me to You" 45 listed the songwriters as "McCartney Lennon". I called Alvin and Simon to tell them this bit of trivia, and we decided to add it the song back in to our set. It wasn't until many years later that I realized that, for a select few people in southern California, their very first exposure to Beatles music was hearing the Chipmunks (in the guise of the Little Rocks) pounding their way through "From Me to You".

It's hard to explain all of the changes that came around that time, if you weren't around for it. A few changes were directly caused by the Beatles, others were more like side effects, and still other changes were probably just happening at the same time. A lot of aspects of my life began changing, too. And not all of those changes were welcome.

For example, sometime in the summer of 1964, Joan lost her engagement at the Seven Palms. The club decided to cut back to having live entertainment on the weekends only. Everyone in the band pitched in looking for another engagement, but the demand for supper club entertainment like Joan provided seemed to have dried up. She finally found a place, but they only wanted to book her for a Friday-and-Saturday engagement, which I couldn't do. I encouraged her to accept the gig, and helped the band find a new drummer. I never played with Joan again, although we agreed to stay in touch. I foolishly asked her out at some point, but she was wise enough to turn me down. And despite the blow to my ego, we remained friends.

The Little Rocks had started feeling the influence of Beatlemania, as well. "Our band started to look a bit old-fashioned," admits Alvin. "Which is kind of ridiculous. I mean, we were in our early twenties, and playing current music. But instrumental combos started to look a bit passé." We would still find new instrumentals to play - I remember adding "Penetration" to our set the same week we started playing "Can't Buy Me Love". But the audiences were starting to respond more to the vocal numbers than the instrumentals. That was a bit of a problem for us. We felt that playing instrumentals put the emphasis on our musicianship, and on the songs themselves. It's not that some people didn't view The Little Rocks as a novelty to begin with (I'm sure they did) but I think we managed to win a lot of folks over with our playing. That was tougher to do with our high-pitched voices. When we stuck with instrumentals, people would hopefully think "wow, these little guys can really play." But as we did more vocals, I'm sure it was more like "aw, isn't that cute - three rodents singing the Beatles."

All through the year, the Beatles phenomenon kept growing, and it eventually hit a point that none of us ever thought it could. David Seville told us he wanted us to record a couple of Beatles songs - "Can't Buy Me Love" and "All My Loving". This was weird for a couple of reasons. First off, we had never recorded covers of contemporary hits. The closest we had come was recording "Jingle Bell Rock" for one of our Christmas albums. And secondly, the Beatles were unabashedly a rock-and-roll band, and The Chipmunks had never recorded anything that you could really classify as rock and roll. And it was that second bit that worried Simon.

"Liberty Records was not unfamiliar with the rock and roll idiom," Simon points out. "Both Bobby Vee and the Marketts recorded for the label, for example, and both acts were rock-based. But for these Beatles songs, we would still be working under the auspices of Mr. Seville, whose musical tastes appeared to have been arrested in the early fifties." But Simon not only foresaw the potential problem - he went ahead and prepared a potential solution. He told us to bring all our gear to the recording session. "I feel it may come in handy" was all he told us. Alvin and I knew better than to second-guess Simon, so when I drove up to Liberty that Sunday morning, all of our instruments were piled in the back of my truck.

We met Dave and Mr. Waronker in the control room. As we watched the string and horn players get their instruments in place, Simon turned to Dave and made an unusual request. He asked to hear the arrangement of "Can't Buy Me Love" first, with Dave taking the lead vocal. Dave seemed confused by the request, but shrugged. He walked into the studio proper, and a few minutes or later, the music began. And from the first note, both Alvin and I immediately began frowning along with Simon.

"God, it was horrible," remembers Alvin. "Well, maybe it was all right for a Henry Mancini album or something. You know, one of those easy-listening albums with a random attractive girl on the front. But as a cover of a Beatles song, it was painful. Dave was obviously trying to 'pretty it up'. But that was the opposite of everything that people liked about the Beatles in the first place."

As Dave finished the song, Simon wheeled around. "Mr. Waronker, our instruments are right outside. Would you allow us to attempt to provide the musical backing?" Mr. Waronker looked skeptical, and Simon pressed harder. "Please, Mr. Waronker. Allow us to do a single run-through, after which you can decide which rendition you feel was superior."

Mr. Waronker sighed. "I suppose. No harm in giving it a listen, right?"

Simon grinned. "Thank you, Mr. Waronker. I have cause to believe you will not regret this decision." We ran out the door towards the parking lot, just as Dave walked back into the control room, looking very confused. But as we began loading our equipment in, we saw Dave standing in the corner, arms crossed, scowling at us. Well, I couldn't blame him, really. We had basically just suggested that we didn't like his arrangement, and that we thought we could do the song better.

A few minutes later, my drums were set up, and I was adjusting a microphone near my head so I could provide backing vocals. Once that was done, I looked through the glass at Mr. Waronker, who gave me a thumbs up. I glanced over at Alvin and Simon, who both nodded back at me. Alvin gave us the key, since the song starts right off with the vocals. I then tapped out the tempo, and all three of us hit our mark.

"Can't buy me lo-ove, lo-ove, can't buy me lo-ove..." Our arrangement had all three of us singing in harmony through the whole song, so I had to focus both on the drums and my vocals for the full two minutes or so. Alvin pulled back from the guitar melody to ape the George Harrison solo, before rejoining the melody on the next chorus.

"Can't buy me lo-o-ove..." The last note reverberated through the studio...and a few musicians behind us started applauding. I stood up, turned to them and bowed in my best Ringo imitation.

Mr. Waronker walked into the studio proper, stared at us for a few seconds, then turned to the musicians behind us. "It would appear your services will not be needed today. Thank you." The musicians started packing their things, and I turned to look back at them. I was thinking that they'd be mad at us. After all, for all I knew, we had just cost them a day's pay. But they all seemed pretty happy for us. Many of them had played on our sessions since the beginning, and I guess they were rather pleased to see us play this music for ourselves.

Once the musicians had left, the engineer came in to reposition some microphones, and Mr. Waronker discussed our arrangement. He suggested that Alvin stick with the rhythm guitar part during the solo section, and we could overdub the solo afterwards. Simon then asked Alvin if he could take the solo instead, and Alvin somewhat reluctantly agreed. "I did really want to cut loose on the solo," Alvin admits, "but Simon was the reason we got to play on the record in the first place, so I decided to let him take it." How does Alvin feel about Simon's solo now? Alvin thinks for a second before answering. "His solo wasn't as flashy as mine was, but his playing style was different. That probably made the record sound better overall."

Once Simon finished the solo overdub, he strapped his bass back on, and we started working on "All My Loving". It wasn't a song we had played before, so we ran through it a few times to make sure we knew the parts. As we finished our last run-through, Dave entered the studio. He wasn't scowling anymore - in fact, he looked kind of embarrassed.

"Uh, fellows, can I do a bit of an intro on this one?" he asked, sounding rather humbled.

We all looked at each other, and I gave a slight nod to Simon. Simon forced a little smile, and said, "Of course, Mr. Seville."

"Great." He had Mr. Waronker join him next to another microphone, and asked us to just go "yeah yeah!" a couple of times when he pointed at us. We nodded, then got into position to record. Dave and Mr. Waronker started clapping a simple beat, then Dave said, in his typical cheery recording voice, "All right, you chipmunks, is your hair on straight?" He pointed at us.

None of us said a word. "...What?" one of us finally asked.

Dave and Mr. Waronker stopped clapping. "Um, is your hair on straight? You know, like a Beatles wig?"

Alvin sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. Mr. Waronker said, "Come on, fellows, give it a go, OK?"

Simon said, "Very well. You have compromised for our sake, so we shall endeavor to do likewise." He turned to Alvin and me and said, "Keep it happy."

Once more, Dave and Mr. Waronker clapped out the beat, and Dave asked his inane question. We "yeah yeah"ed on cue, Dave finished his intro, and we launched into the song. The take was solid if not great. The pace was a bit slow, and you could hear that we were still trying to nail the song. But Mr. Waronker loved it.

"That was really splendid, fellows. I'm glad you had the idea to bring your instruments in."

Alvin smirked. "Told ya we could play."

I was worried that Alvin's comment would spark some unwelcome words from Dave. I immediately said the first thing that came to mind, hoping to change the subject. "Maybe we should have done 'From Me to You', instead."

My interjection apparently worked, because Mr. Waronker turned to me and said, "Why do you say that?"

I shrugged. "We already know that one. We've been playing it since last year."

"Can you boys play it for me?" he asked.

"Sure, I guess. Alvin, you got your harmonica?"

Alvin set up his rack, I tapped out the rhythm, and we all came in on the four count. "Da da da, da da din din da..." We made our way through the song, closing it out with an extended "daaa". Mr. Waronker stared at us each in turn.

"How many Beatles songs do you know?"

"Besides those two?" Alvin began ticking them off on his fingers. "'I Saw Her Standing There', 'She Loves You', 'Please Please Me'. And 'Twist and Shout', if that one counts."

Simon added, "We have also attempted 'PS I Love You', but we were less than satisfied with the result."

Mr. Waronker rubbed his hands together. "Perfect. Let's get started. 'From Me to You' first." He pointed to Dave. "Get over to the store and buy us some Beatles records."

Dave looked confused. "What for?"

"So these fellows can learn enough to round out an album of Beatles covers."

"A whole album?" Dave and us three must have said it at the same time.

"Why not? You guys are more than halfway there just with the ones you already know. Let's see if we can crank this thing out."

We decided, heck, we were enjoying it so far. We pounded out the other four we knew in a couple takes each, with Alvin or Simon adding additional guitar afterwards when we felt it was needed. Then we sort of muddled our way through "PS I Love You". It wasn't great, but it at least sounded better than it had the last time we rehearsed it.

By that point, Dave had returned with some records, and we picked out a few more to do. We stuck with the ones that had already been big hits - "I Want to Hold Your Hand", "Love Me Do", "Do You Want to Know a Secret". During the previous year or two, we had gotten plenty of practice learning songs by listening to the records, so it didn't take much more than half an hour each to get them down on tape.

The final one we tried was "A Hard Day's Night", and that one was a chore. We spent about twenty minutes just trying to get the opening chord to sound right. No matter what we tried, it just didn't sound like the one on the record. We finally gave up, and decided to skip that chord and start with the vocals.

Those last four songs remain my least favorites on the album. The tempos are a bit draggy, and we're a bit hesitant on the vocals, too. We should have gone home and practiced those songs for a while, played them in our sets that next weekend, and then come back to record them once we had them down pat. "I would recommended such a course of action, had I believed the recommendation would have had any effect," states Simon, with more than a little cynicism. "Quality control was rarely a top concern for Chipmunks records. They often wanted the record finished today and in the racks tomorrow, even if that meant an inferior product to sell."

The cover art for the album was typically silly. Our cartoon likenesses are wearing Beatles wigs and playing our instruments...or something that kind of looks like our instruments. Simon's bass looks almost like a sitar, and Alvin appears to have attached his harmonica to the body of his guitar. Most annoyingly, Dave is there with us, playing rhythm guitar and smiling. Dave barely shows up on this album at all - in fact, the entire sound of the album ran counter to his basic idea for it.

With all the solid rock and roll we recorded for the album, I really have no idea why Liberty chose to put out "All My Loving" as the single, complete with Dave's stupid intro. They even put one of the "on the fly" songs as a b-side - "Do You Want to Know a Secret". A few countries in Europe chose to put "Please Please Me" as the b-side instead. Whoever it was who chose that one over "Secret", Theodore Chipmunk salutes you half a century after the fact.

All that being said, this is by far my favorite Chipmunks album from the 1960s. Yeah, it's just us covering Beatles songs, but that's the true wonder of it. Instead of us laying our vocals on top of some children's songs that other people performed, it is in fact the three of us playing Beatles songs. If you want to know what we sounded like at our gigs at PJ's, this album gives you a pretty decent idea. And that's something I can't say about any of our other albums at that time.

The single "All My Loving" was a stiff, but the album was a big hit. It reached number sixteen, making it our third-highest charting album ever. As an added bonus, since we performed the music, we received a larger payday than normal.

With a top twenty album featuring us singing and playing rock and roll, I thought the future looked great for The Chipmunks. I pictured our next album being mostly rock and roll covers, but perhaps we could write a few originals, as well. And now that the folks at Liberty had proof that we could perform well on our instruments, maybe we could get out there and play some live shows as the Chipmunks, too!

It won't surprise you to find out that my prediction was off. But it's a bit staggering how far off it was.


	20. More Than Just Holding Hands

Once Simon left for graduate school, I literally had nothing on the table. No job, no gigs, nothing. My weekly calendar used to be scribbled full of gigs and events, but now it had precisely one item on it - karate on Saturdays at 10 am. Even The Chipmunks had gone on hiatus. David Seville had found out that Alvin wasn't available, and so decided to take Armen to Hawaii for a long-delayed vacation.

So I went back out in search of a new gig. I met back up with Joan, Harry, and Freddie, all of whom promised to keep their eyes peeled for anybody needing a drummer. I spent many weekend nights going to rock and roll gigs, meeting other groups, trying to get my name out there. I answered a bunch of ads I saw at music stores. And I came up completely empty. I simply couldn't find a gig at all. And as the gig-less weeks started piling up, it got harder and harder to get off my tail and leave the apartment. I was gaining weight, indulging in a few too many ice cream sundaes, and slowly getting sucked into becoming a complete and utter bum. I remember laying on the couch at one point, glumly wondering if that final Nutty Squirrels gig would be the last time I'd ever play the drums on stage.

One morning in April 1965, I was woken up by a phone call. I wasn't fully awake or coherent when I answered, so I didn't quite understand who was on the phone, or what was being said. But my brain eventually snapped into gear. It was Mrs. Lowell, who lived next door to Mrs. Gorman. And she was calling to let me know that Mrs. Gorman had passed away.

When I got off the phone with her, I gave in to the desire to just sit on the floor and cry my eyes out. My brothers were far away, and now my adopted mother was dead. I had never felt so completely and utterly alone.

I had seen Mrs. Gorman the previous Saturday morning for a few minutes, like I did most Saturdays. I would drive up, she'd come to the door, we'd chat a bit about our lives, then I'd head over to karate class. At my last visit, I had told her all about trying to find a gig, and feeling really lost without Alvin and Simon nearby. She had told me, "Theodore, you're more resourceful than you think. You simply need to figure out what you want to do, and then go out and do it."

It may have been just a little pep talk from my surrogate mother, but I decided to hold on to it tightly. I considered it her final gift to me, and I was determined not to fail her. Wherever she was, I wanted her to see me doing well, and to be proud of me.

Alvin was still God-knows-where on his "tour", and Simon elected not to fly back to Los Angeles to attend Mrs. Gorman's memorial service. Simon grimaces a bit when he says, "I convinced myself that it was not necessary. I had just ensconced myself into New York, and was beginning to rebuild my social life. I decided flying back would be a waste of funds when I was attempting to economize, and that Mrs. Gorman would have understood. It was extremely self-centered on my part. Missing her memorial service remains one of my great regrets in life."

This meant that I was the only chipmunk in attendance at the service. I wore my black suit, and murmured "thank you for coming" to the few people who approached me. Mrs. Gorman never told us in so many words, but we were aware that several of her friends and colleagues didn't entirely approve of her adopting us. Two of those friends gave short eulogies before I was asked to come up and say a few words. Standing on a footstool at the lectern, I spoke as slowly and clearly as I could. I ended by saying, "Mrs. Gorman opened her home and opened her heart to me and my brothers. Let her be an example to all of us, to follow in the teachings of Jesus." I probably made a few people uncomfortable with that line, but I'm guessing Mrs. Gorman would've thought it especially apt.

With my brothers out of town, it fell to me to handle the estate. Mrs. Gorman had wiled us the house and all its possessions, with her modest savings going to her church. Simon suggested we sell the house and put the possessions in storage, to deal with when he returned - a suggestion I immediately put into motion. By the end of May, the house had sold, our bank accounts were about to get a huge boost, and I was able to start working on the next step of my plan.

In my twice-weekly phone calls with Simon, I had repeatedly told him of my struggles to get a gig anywhere. Simon would tell me that I just needed to be patient and persistent. I mentioned that maybe I was just in the wrong city, but Simon's response to that was tepid. "I could readily sense that you were attempting to elicit an invitation from me for you to relocate to New York. But, to be exceptionally blunt, I did not wish you to join me. Not because I thought you could not succeed here, but for purely selfish reasons. I envisioned you making demands on my time, and most likely pestering me to join a musical group with you. I had just begun building a new life, and, rather selfishly, I was not prepared to share it with you at that juncture."

I picked up on Simon's lack of enthusiasm, and initially decided to stick it out in Los Angeles. But then it hit me. Just because Simon wasn't interested in having me there didn't mean I couldn't go. New York's a big city. He didn't even have to know I was there. I could scope out the scene, see if I liked the vibe, and find out firsthand if there were gigs available for a versatile chipmunk drummer. The idea was intimidating, but Mrs. Gorman's pep talk kept me from backing away from it.

I had just about made up my mind to drive out there when I had yet another dose of bad luck. I was out at a club watching a rock and roll band one night, and a drunk guy drove his own truck into mine, totaling both vehicles and sending himself to the hospital for an extended stay. Now I had no transportation to even get around town. I couldn't just buy another car, or even rent one. Any vehicle had to be extensively worked over before I could drive it. And to make matters worse, when Scooter picked me up for karate the next morning, he revealed to me that the guy who had previously retrofitted our vehicles had moved to Texas to open his own shop. That meant we no longer knew anybody who could retrofit a vehicle for a rodent.

"Don't worry that fuzzy head of yours," Scooter told me. "Minor setback! That's all it is. Plenty of other ways to New York. You'll figure it out."

He was right, of course. There were plenty of other ways to get there. I could get there by airplane, or take a bus, or take the train like Simon did. But after mulling it over a bit more, I decided how I wanted to get to New York.

I was going to hitchhike.

Hitchhiking has fallen out of favor over the years, but in the sixties, it was pretty common. So I decided I wanted to "see America" by hitchhiking across it. I had Scooter help me move out of my apartment, and put everything in storage with Mrs. Gorman's things. Then I packed up some clothes, some snacks, some well-hidden cash, and my ukulele, and began hitching my way across the country.

My trip didn't have a very auspicious start. Nobody stopped for me for a few hours. And the first guy who did pick me up immediately told me to go sit in the back seat because "I don't like rodents". (Then why stop for me?) He didn't say another word, and after about twenty miles or so, he said "that's enough". He pulled over in Riverside, and told me to get out. As I did so, I did some quick calculations in my head. I would need another hundred and fifty rides like that one before I reached New York...and it'd probably be the early 1970s before I got there.

Luckily, things picked up after that. I did often have to wait quite a bit for a lift, but when I did, I'd just pull out my ukulele and entertain myself by trying to work out another song I liked. Eventually, some kind soul would see my homemade NEW YORK CITY, PLEASE sign, and stop for me.

One trucker named Hoss took me all the way from Riverside to St Louis. He knew a bunch of great places to stop for food - there really is something special about truck-stop chocolate cake. I thanked him by buying all of our meals during that stretch, and by playing him the few Jim Reeves songs I knew on my ukulele. He liked to chat, so we spent much of the trip gabbing about our lives. He said he hoped to find me playing gigs in New York the next time he was up that way, but I never did see him again. He was hauling for Hormel meats, and I still think of Hoss each time I see that company name in the grocery store.

But there was somebody else I met on my journey who sticks in my mind even more.

"Hippies" weren't really a thing in 1965 yet, but it's not like the concept sprang out of nowhere. There were bohemians and beatniks, both of which had something of a similar vibe. And although the people in this car that picked me up in St. Louis weren't hippies really, you could sort of tell they would be in a few years. There was a guy driving, a girl in the passenger seat...and a female squirrel in the back, who shyly waved hello.

Despite spending many hours with them, I never found out if they all knew each other, or if the human couple had picked her up as a hitchhiker, too. In fact, I never learned any of their names. It simply never came up, and I never asked.

They did ask me to play for them, though, and I was happy to oblige. The driver asked me to play some Bob Dylan, and I managed to fumble through "Blowin' in the Wind". He tried to teach me "Like a Rolling Stone", but none of them played guitar - they were just singing notes at me as I tried to play them. Between that, and them trying to remember which lyric came next in the song, it ended up as something of a musical train wreck. After that song limped to a close, they seemed content to let me get back to my repertoire of Beatles songs.

It began getting dark, so they invited me to spend the night with them - an invitation I gladly accepted. As they drove along the darkening road looking for a motel, I once more picked up my ukulele. I strummed a few chords, then fell into playing and singing the Beatles song "If I Fell" rather quietly. About halfway through, I noticed the squirrel sitting closer to me, staring rather intently. I had only seen that look on one other girl - Elaine. I finished the song, at which point she leaned over and kissed me softly on the cheek. And that's when I started to realize just how powerful those Beatles songs really were.

At about that time, we finally found a motel. We got a room (which I paid for half of), and we stumbled in for the night. We shared a meal of raisins and crackers, and then the guy rolled a joint and lit up. He passed it to the two girls, who each took a hit, who then passed it to me. I must have looked as inexperienced as I actually was, because the squirrel said, "here, let me show you how". She was a pretty good teacher, from what I recall.

The front seat couple got into one bed, and Backseat Squirrel got in the other. I was about to try to make a makeshift bed on the comfortable chair when the squirrel looked at me and patted the space in the bed next to her. I hesitated for, oh, half a second before grinning and climbing in. I was getting comfortable when some sounds made me look over at the other bed. The other couple had started having sex. This absolutely boggled my mind, as I had never seen anybody have sex before. Heck, I'd never even seen a female naked before. But before I had a chance to really take it in, Backseat Squirrel tapped me on the shoulder. "You know," she said softly, "it's a lot more fun to play than it is to watch."

And then, as the saying used to go, Backseat Squirrel proceeded to make Theodore Chipmunk a man.


	21. You Know Where I Can Be Found

Go to exactly the right part of New York City, and talk to someone of a certain age who has lived there all of his life. Then, and only then, you might hear the term "verto". You might hear something like "that restaurant is pretty verto" or "there's a bunch of verto shops there". It means low-budget or somewhat shabby, but still kind of pleasant. You might be a bit embarrassed that your favorite restaurant is verto, for instance, but it wouldn't stop you going there - in fact, it would be part of its charm. But even the few people who use the term probably don't know where it comes from. It's a corruption of what that section of town used to be called: Vermintown.

Decades ago, one kind soul did his part to try to help the rodent population of New York City. He hired a fairly big group of them to clean the subway cars at one of the terminals. As time went on, those rodents were joined by rodent mechanics, electricians, painters and office workers - all working at that one terminal. Many of those city employees found housing fairly close by, which is how the area around that terminal came to be dubbed "Vermintown". In 1965, the term was already on the way out, but I knew that that was where most of the rodents in New York lived. So I ended my cross-country hitchhike by having the final car drop me off there.

I checked in to a modestly-priced hotel which technically was on the outskirts of Vermintown. In other words, the rooms were a bit nicer but they still would rent a room to a chipmunk. With that as my home base, I started exploring the city. I didn't go to the Empire State Building or Statue of Liberty - I wasn't looking to do anything tourist-like. I was just trying to get an overall feel. What was this city like? Would I like it here? Could I make a living as a musician here?

It felt a bit surreal those first few days, wandering around a city where I didn't know anybody or anything. I felt a bit like one of the alien visitors in those science fiction stories I read all the time. I did try to find a new ice cream parlor to eat lunch at every day, so I guess the "ice cream fiend" part of my personality had followed me into this new city. I managed to find a few great shops, although in my mind, nothing would ever top Henderson's. And even though I was sorely tempted a few times, I managed to resist the urge to call or visit Simon.

I had an extra obstacle when it came to getting into the music scene. Folk music was sort of exploding in New York at the time, and while I thought folk music was fine, it was a genre that didn't really have much use for a drummer. So I'd walk into a little place, see a guy playing acoustic guitar by himself, leave, walk into another place, see another guy playing acoustic guitar by himself, and so on for much of the night. It was like living in a town of a thousand would-be Bob Dylans.

Eventually, though, I found a few jazz clubs, and a couple of night spots with rock and roll bands playing. I tried staying around after the sets, and working up the courage to introduce myself. Sometimes I managed it, and sometimes I didn't, so maybe I hadn't taken enough karate lessons. Anyway, the times I did, I explained that I was thinking about moving to New York, but only if I could find some sort of regular drumming work. Most folks were pretty nice to me, which was a relief. It appeared that just being a fellow musician helped ease over some of the initial awkwardness. But nobody said they knew of any openings.

Finally, I found one rock group that knew of another that was looking for a drummer. They gave me the lead singer's name and phone number, and I called him the next day. He seemed a bit hesitant, but he finally agreed to give me a try, and asked if I could come in for an audition in about five days time.

"Um, I don't actually have my drum set here. I could have it shipped to me in the next week or two."

The guy sighed. "Look, do you want this gig or not?"

I set my jaw. "OK, OK. I'll get a set and meet you then." Well, apparently I was going to go drum shopping.

I don't remember the name of the first shop I went to, but it was a huge music shop for the time. I browsed the shop for a bit with my front paws clasped behind me - old habits die hard - before a clerk approached me. As soon as I saw the look he gave me, I knew this wasn't going to be a pleasant transaction. You just start sensing these things after a while.

"Can I...help you?" he said, in a voice that suggested he'd rather do anything but.

I grinned back, because sometimes I managed to win people over with politeness. "Yes, please. I am interested in a drum set."

He sort of rolled his eyes and had me follow him to the counter. After digging around under the counter for a bit, he pulled out a small set of bongos, which he then handed to me. I looked them over briefly and, still trying to be polite, said, "Well, these are nice and all, but I was interested in a full drum kit."

He looked me over and said "Don't you think you might be a bit small to play the drums?"

I grinned again and said, "Well, I'd like to try, anyway."

He rolled his eyes again, then walked back out from behind the counter. He led me to the drum set-ups and said, "We might have a children's set that might be small enough for you." But I had already stopped in front of a full-sized set.

"Excuse me," I asked loudly. "Could I try these, please?"

The guy turned and looked, then sort of tossed up his hands in a "whatever" sort of motion. I pulled a couple of cheap drumsticks out from a display, then lowered the throne so my feet could reach the pedals. I tested the bass drum pedal once, then the high hat once. Finally, I looked at the sales guy and said, "OK. Let's see how these sound."

I slammed into the "Walk Don't Run" intro, went into that beat for four measures, then jumped into the "Wipe Out" solo. I came out of that, played the "Wipe Out" beat for a bit, then ended with a closing freak-out like at the end of "Topsy". It had been over a month since I had gotten to play the drums, and damn, it felt good to be playing again!

As the closing cymbal crash faded out, I sat in silence for a moment as everybody in the store stared at me. Then I handed the drumsticks to the clerk, shook my head and said "Nice action, but I don't know if I like the overall feel of this set. Thanks anyway." And I stood up and walked out of the shop.

I hadn't gotten far down the block when I heard a voice. "Hey, chipmunk!" I looked back, and a short guy wearing glasses was hurrying to catch up to me. Once he had, he said, "That was some great drumming in there." I thanked him, and he went on to introduce himself as Walter. He played guitar in a group that was looking to switch gears a bit and get a more rock and roll sound, but they hadn't found a good drummer. Would I be interested? Heck, yeah, I was interested. But I was honest. I told him I didn't have a set here in town, and I was shopping for one so I could go to an audition for another group in a few days.

"You want to go buy that set?" Walter said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"Not from that guy," I said, making a face.

"Oh. Well, there's another shop down the way here. They've got a few drum sets." That sounded like a good plan, so we walked down to the shop together. Along the way, Walter and I discussed the bands we'd played for. I decided against mentioning the Chipmunks at all. I just said that I'd played in an instrumental rock trio with my brothers for the last several years.

We walked into the other shop, and I took maybe five steps in before I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. It was a brand new Ludwig drum kit - green, no less. I ran my paw over the bass drum, then brought down the throne, grabbed a couple of sticks, sat down, and started playing. And two measures in, I knew I had found my new set.

I finished my little solo, and Walter just stared at me. "You're it, little guy."

"I'm what?"

"That look on your face when you play." He gestures above his head. "It's like you go somewhere else. The music takes you." He grinned. "You're just the drummer our band has been looking for."

I bought the set and arranged to have it shipped to the audition spot. Since I had now committed to joining at least one band, I figured I was going to need a more permanent address than a cheap hotel. I spent the remainder of the next two days checking out apartments, eventually choosing Apartment 1 on the ground floor of a fairly large building in the heart of Verto. I called Scooter and gave him a list of things I wanted him to pack up and deliver to me. I felt pretty sad talking to him, as it was clear that I was no longer going to be sparring with him every Saturday. "That's OK, kid," he told me. "You got your life to live. Go live it."

While I was moving my meager possessions into my new apartment, my next-door neighbor came over to introduce himself. He was a beaver who went by the nickname Rusty, and he worked as a head maintenance guy for the subways. Rusty was a bit strange. He had this slow and deliberate way of talking, like he was giving everything he said a lot of thought, even if it was something fairly obvious. If you told Rusty, "it's pretty hot today", he'd pause for a second before slowly nodding his head and saying "yep, sure feels that way, neighbor". He always called me "neighbor", too. I often wondered if he did that because he couldn't remember my name.

My audition for that first band didn't go all that well. My drums were piled up in the corner when I arrived, so I set them up as the band members chatted among themselves. Once I was ready, I expected to be introduced to everybody in the group. Instead, the guy just looked at me and said, "'Like a Rolling Stone'". I had never played that song before, but the song was huge at the time, and I knew it pretty well. I nodded, tapped out three counts, hit the downbeat, and away we went.

Once we finished, the lead guy sort of cocked his head and looked back at me. "You put a lot of fills in."

That confused me. "Um, just the ones that are on the record."

"No, I'm pretty sure those aren't on there. It's Dylan. He wouldn't clutter up his song like that." He pointed to another guy who had been sitting on a couch staring. "Ok, your turn." The guy got up, walked over to me, and held out his hand.

"What's this?" I asked.

"He's auditioning, too."

"...on my drum set?"

"Come on. It wouldn't make any sense to make him drag a drum set down here when yours was already here."

I looked at him, looked at the new guy, then handed him the drumsticks and got off the stool. He readjusted the throne, then counted off the beat for a second run-through of "Rolling Stone".

I tried my damnedest to remain objective. He's a drummer, too, I thought. He's bringing his own feel to the song. But I honestly thought he just wasn't playing it as well as I had. Presumably taking a cue from what was said to me, he hardly put in any fills - just a steady and restrained beat from start to finish.

When he finished, the lead guy smiled. "See? That's what we're looking for. Great timekeeping. Nothing showy. You're hired. Our first gig is next Wednesday..."

I stood up, and loudly said, "Well, I guess I'm done here. Congratulations." I tried to smile at the band's new drummer, then turned back to the lead guy. "I'll have the drums picked up tomorrow."

"Well, no hurry, man. If you want to leave them here for a while..."

"...yeah, is it okay if I rehearse on them?" asked other drummer.

I stared at him, then back at the lead guy. "Tomorrow," I repeated. "I'll have them picked up tomorrow."

As I walked out, I heard him say, "Geez, what a grouchy rat..."

I went back to my apartment, switched on the radio...and immediately heard "Like a Rolling Stone". Complete with drum fills. I started unpacking some boxes, muttering to myself.

I had the drum set sent to Walter's band's practice room. There wasn't much use in me keeping it at home, as I'd have to keep dragging it to practice in addition to gigs. This band included three other guys - Dan on guitar and vocals, Barry on bass and Miguel who played Farfisa organ. They had originally been calling themselves The Gears, but after losing their drummer, they decided to try rocking a bit harder - and they decided to mark the change by changing their name to The Second Gears. Before we got started, I got the feeling that both Dan and Miguel were rather unsure about me. But after the band finished working our way through "I Feel Fine" and "I'm Telling You Now", Miguel gave me a grin. Dan, on the other hand, was still frowning.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't think he's loud enough."

Walter bugged his eyes out from behind his glasses. "Are you kidding? He's as loud as any other drummer." Barry nodded, and even Miguel seemed to agree.

Dan started fiddling with his guitar a bit. "It's just...you know, a vermin drummer? Come on."

I had purchased a drum kit, and finalized a move to New York, based on Walter saying I'd be perfect for this group. And now the lead guy was giving me the "I don't want to play with rodents" routine. I slammed my sticks down on my snare, got off my stool, and walked over to Dan. "First off, you have a problem with me, you talk to me. Don't talk about me like I'm not sitting behind you staring at the back of your head. And second, I'm a damn good drummer. You want me to play louder? I got plenty in reserve. You want me to speed up, slow down, switch to bossa nova or take a three-minute solo? I'm ready." I poked a thumb into my chest. "Try me."

Dan stared at me, then glanced around at the others before looking at me once again. Slowly, a smile crept over his face. "All right. Let's see what you got." He indicated my drums with his chin, so I walked back to my throne, sat down, and picked up my sticks. Dan smirked and asked, "Can you do 'Wipeout'?"

I rolled my eyes. "I was in an instrumental rock trio for the last three years. You think we never played 'Wipeout'?"

Dan ran his hand across his fretboard. "Prove it."

I spun the drumstick in my right hand and pointed it at Dan. "Try to keep up." I launched into the opening drum solo, and everybody else fell in. The band wasn't bad, although it was pretty clear this wasn't one of their regular songs. Still, they soldiered through it, and I kept powering on. We hit the part of the song where it fades out on the record, and one by one, the other guys stopped playing. I kept going until Dan finally stopped, and he gave me a bit of a smile. I finished with a round of cymbal crashes, then once more pointed my sticks at Dan.

"And don't call me 'vermin'," I added. "It's rude." I grinned, and everybody laughed. Including Dan. I may have lost out on the first band, but I managed to win over the second.

The Second Gears had their first show about a month later, and I decided that it was probably time to let Simon know I had moved to New York. I picked up the phone and started dialing his number, but then hung up. I remembered how how unenthusiastic he was when I first mentioned moving to New York. Maybe he wouldn't want to see me? If so, I wasn't sure I'd want to hear that. So I gave it some more thought, and came up with a different plan.

"I returned from my morning classes to find a note affixed to my door," recalls Simon. "It was a mock-up of a concert poster - five bands slated to perform at a small club the following weekend. You had circled the penultimate band name - The Second Gears - and added a note that simply read 'Hope to see you there! - TD'."

Simon pauses for a minute before continuing. "It is difficult to describe the succession of emotions I felt upon seeing this ersatz poster. First and foremost, I felt relieved. You had disappeared from my life a few months previous. Your twice-weekly phone calls had suddenly stopped, and when I attempted to phone you, the line had been disconnected. So any sign that you were alive and well was a welcome one.

"Next, I must admit, came annoyance. You were in New York. You had, as it were, invaded my space. As if this metropolis was mine alone." Simon smiles. "But the annoyance faded as I gave it more thought. You were in a new band, so you obviously had already settled yourself. And you had maintained your distance. Your poster was a subtle message that you had relocated, and wished to reconnect. And it helped me realize that I wished to reconnect as well."

The gig itself wasn't that great. "It was evident that you had not yet fully integrated into the group," admits Simon. "Your set was pleasant but not much more. The Second Gears stuck out due to your canny choice of songs to cover. If memory serves, every other band on the bill attempted 'Like a Rolling Stone', but The Second Gears elected to perform a rock and roll rendition of 'Don't Think Twice It's All Right'."

After breaking down my drum set, I walked into the crowd, spotted Simon, and gave him a huge hug. We spent the rest of the night at a table in the back, half-listening to the other groups as we caught each other up on what we'd been up to the last few months.

It was the weekend after that gig when I came home from shopping to find a note on my door. A package had been delivered while I was out - more stuff from Scooter - so they had taken it next door to Rusty's place. I walked over and knocked, and Rusty opened the door a bit and peered through the crack. "Afternoon, neighbor," he said.

"Hi, Rusty. I had a note saying they delivered something here for me...?"

Rusty appeared thoughtful for a second before answering. "Yep, indeed they did, neighbor. Would you care to come in and collect it?"

"Yes, please, Rusty."

Rusty again paused slightly before closing the door, unhooking the chain, and throwing the door open wide. He turned around and walked to the back of the living room where a crate stood on end. I didn't follow him, though. I had taken one step into the room, and then stopped short, looking around with my mouth hanging open.

By looking at it just right, I could tell that Rusty's front living room had once looked just like mine - high ceiling, old light fixture, large doorways, kind of run down. But there had been a ton of work done to the room. On either side, a platform had been erected, with a ladder leading up to it. But they weren't just plain platforms. I could see that they had furniture and things arranged up on them - like small rooms elevated above the floor. And the areas underneath the platforms had light fixtures and furniture as well. It was as if they had built an additional small story in the large living room. And since Rusty stood about as tall as I did, he could use either "story" just fine.

I stood there staring at it all, and finally asked Rusty about it.

"Oh, yes," he said, like he had stopped even noticing. "Built those, I did. Had relatives move to town. Couldn't find a place to live, so they lived here for a spell. Bernice - that's the wife, Bernice - she said I should mock up something up to keep them out of the way."

"So you had folks living up there?"

Slowly, Rusty nodded. "Yep. Yep. About a year. Not quite that. Big enough for a rodent bed, small dresser, little chair, lamp. Hung some drapes - just fabric, really - along the outside. A little privacy, not that much. Still crowded, but it kept us from bumping into each other, you understand." He looked up at them and scratched his head. "Finally moved out. Seemed a shame to tear 'em down. So that there's Bernice's sewing room now, and that's now my den."

"Why are they only against the walls?" I asked. "Why don't they span the whole room?"

Slowly, Rusty shook his head. "Not my building, neighbor. Gotta leave room for the human landlord to come in if needs to. And had to make 'em ready to pull out at a moment's notice, in case we lose the lease. Need to move out? Give me the word. We move the stuff down, unplug the electrics, pull out that, that, that and that..." He pointed to various spots on the platform. "Everything's ready to moved out."

I excitedly asked Rusty to show me the rest of his apartment, which he proudly did. No room had escaped his handiwork, and all of it seemed both genius and rather obvious in retrospect. Why wouldn't rodents have steps attached to the lower kitchen cupboards, so they could reach the counter and upper cupboards easily? Why wouldn't they have a storage area along the ceiling of the kitchen for canned goods? Why not have an elevated stainless-steel mesh platform in the shower, so rodents could reach both the controls and the shower-head? The more I saw of Rusty's place, the more I wanted to see.

By the time Rusty had finished the grand tour, his wife Bernice had come home with their young daughter Grace. After introducing myself to them, I told them how much I loved their place. I then asked if there was any way I could pay Rusty to help me outfit my apartment just like his. He wasn't too keen on the idea, but Bernice reminded him that the extra money would probably come in handy. So he told me that he would do a lot of the planning and measuring, but I'd have to buy the materials and do a lot of the actual building myself.

I had to think about that for a minute. I had taken woodworking class in high school, and while I had passed without any problems, I couldn't say it was something I felt that I was all that good at. Then again, the more I thought about it, my biggest problem in the class was working with tools that were built for humans. If Rusty had managed to build these things of his, he obviously must have found a way around those problems. So we arranged to have him start coming over for an evening or two each week, and for a bit longer on Saturdays.

During one of those Saturday building sessions, Rusty was hammering something as I held it in place. He suddenly paused and said, "Oh, by the bye, saw your new record at the shop. Nice. Good to see you still making records."

I gave him a look. "Actually, we haven't recorded together for months. It must have been an old one. The one with a photo of a children's choir on the cover?"

Rusty grabbed another nail and pounded into place. He inspected his work, then paused again before speaking. "No, no, it was a drawing. Animated cartoon-like. Three chipmunks and a man. Playing rock and roll."

I grimaced. "That's our Beatles one. With the man playing guitar on the cover, right?"

Again, Rusty put another nail in before answering. "...no, no, the man was playing the drums. Thought that was odd, seeing as how you said you were the drummer. Can't recall the name. 'Go Chipmunks Go'? Something like that."

Our conversation wandered off to other topics, but I kept thinking about this record Rusty had seen. It might have been one of the many knockoff Chipmunks albums that had come out in our wake. After The Chipmunks hit it big, a lot of other labels were putting out records by The Badgers and The Beavers and whatever else. I remember one label put out several albums supposedly sung by singing grasshoppers. So maybe Rusty saw an album by one of those groups - the Gophers, or something like that.

The next day, I decided to walk over to the record store to see if I could locate the album that Rusty was talking about. Ends up it wasn't hard to find. Right in the Chipmunks slot were two copies of a new album called "Chipmunks a Go Go". I pulled one out of the rack and stared at the front cover. Yes, David Seville was behind the drum kit. A green drum kit, no less. And where was "Theodore"? On lead guitar! And my heart sank when I saw the track listing. It was nothing but covers of current hits. A few of the songs were pop fluff, like "Sunshine Lollipops and Rainbows". But there were some good rock and roll songs on there, too - a couple of Herman's Hermits songs, "California Girls", "Mr Tambourine Man"...what? The Chipmunks covered Bob Dylan? And I wasn't a part of it?!

They even put our individual names on the cover. "Alvin Simon & Theodore With David Seville". The slack-jawed smile of guitar-playing "Theodore" on the cover seemed to be mocking me. He got to play and sing a Bob Dylan song on a record...but I didn't.

Seething, I bought the album and took it home. I placed it on the turntable, ready to hear Dave do a goofy intro before Alvin launched into "What's New Pussycat". But instead, I heard..."What's New Pussycat". Sung by some rodents I didn't recognize at all. It definitely wasn't Alvin singing lead. And no David Seville, either. I flipped the album cover over and scanned the back. No mention of Ross Bagdasarian there, either.

I kept listening, and by the end of the record, I was no longer angry - just confused. What was this, exactly? It wasn't terrible or anything, but it didn't sound at all like any other Chipmunks album. I decided to call Simon to see if he could shed some light on it. And, as usual, he could.

"Did you not get a phone call from Liberty discussing the album?"

"No! They never called me at all!"

"Did you alert Liberty that you had a new telephone number?"

I paused. "Uh...no."

"Thus the lack of a phone call. They telephoned me, and laid out the recording dates and so forth. Naturally, I declined. I simply assumed you had, as well."

I groused, "But I would have loved to do this one. This was the album I wanted to do instead of that dumb kids one."

"Indeed. However, I was told quite firmly by Liberty that session musicians would be employed. Would you have consented to traverse back to Los Angeles only to provide backing vocals?"

I hadn't really considered that. "Well, maybe..."

Simon pressed on. "And if it were not even Alvin and myself you were harmonizing with?"

That reminded me. "Yeah, where's Alvin on this thing? And David Seville?"

"Alvin was presumably still on his tour when they recorded the album. And Mr. Seville was probably still on his extended vacation."

After I got off the phone with Simon, I ran my paw over the cover of the album, just as I had done with the Chipmunks Beatles album about a year ago. And I had another revelation. Back then, I had finally realized that there was a disconnect between myself and "Theodore". And now, I noticed an even bigger disconnect. Apparently, The Chipmunks weren't reliant on any one thing. It wasn't us three. It wasn't just "Alvin and whomever", or even "David Seville producing whomever". None of us were necessary parts of the Chipmunks brand. Even with all of us unavailable, The Chipmunks could still soldier on.

The Chipmunks were a concept. An idea. If it had rodent voices singing, and the red- blue- and green-clad cartoons on the cover, then it was The Chipmunks. That was all it took.

That revelation actually made me feel a little better about it all. I had felt somewhat unimportant in the Chipmunks scheme of things before, but apparently I wasn't alone in that regard. All of us were unimportant in the Chipmunks master plan. And with this type of album getting churned out, it seemed The Chipmunk phase of my life was pretty much over. I would continue getting some modest paychecks out of it, so long as they kept using my name on the cover. But that was probably going to be the extent of it. I was done being an active part of The Chipmunks.

 _Theodore Chipmunk is dead_ , I thought. _Long live TD Henderson._


	22. A Man Of Means By No Means

As 1966 began, I was beginning to settle into New York a little more. I felt less like an interloper, and more like I had found a little niche for myself. Mind you, I didn't really feel like a New Yorker, and still don't to this very day. Even after so many decades, it feels more like my adoptive city than my true home. Personally, I blame the snow. I know some California transplants run outside during their first snowstorm, arms outstretched, catching snowflakes on their tongues. Me? I closed the curtains and hoped it'd be over soon. Even now, when the first flakes of the season fall, I'm immediately daydreaming of the spring. I love New York and really do enjoy my time there, but I'm apparently still an Angeleno at heart.

As I worked on building up my apartment, I came to realize that I was a lot better at this sort of thing than I thought I would be. I had never been much of a "handyman" growing up, with Simon and Alvin usually handling the minor fix-it jobs that had to get done at Mrs. Gorman's house. However, now that a project was completely in my paws, I was actually making good progress on it. I would put an LP on my hi-fi, spend the next twenty minutes sawing or sanding or whatever, then flip the record over and get back to it. To this day, when I hear songs from the Beatles' Help!, or Herb Alpert's Whipped Cream and Other Delights, I can remember what parts of my apartment I was working on.

Another thing I noticed was that my cash flow was getting dangerously one-sided. New York living wasn't outrageously expensive back then, but I didn't have much money coming in. The Second Gears were playing maybe one gig a month, and I was walking out with maybe a few dollars each time. That wasn't even enough to pay for the records I bought each month. I still had Chipmunks royalty payments coming in on a regular basis, but those didn't exactly add up to a living wage. Obviously, I was going to have had to find more income.

I redoubled my efforts to find a gig, and finally found a spot drumming with a jazz ensemble. The Hector James Quartet was a rather typical jazz combo for the time: sax, piano, stand-up bass, and drums. The HJQ had regular gigs three nights a week - Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays - but at three different venues. I didn't have a truck then, so I had to find a way to get my drums to every gig. Luckily, Jimmy didn't live too far from me, and my drums just barely fit into the back of his truck next to his stand-up bass. I started paying for Jimmy's dinner every night that we played, as a way to pay him back for having to schlep me and my drums around.

Soon after I joined, the quartet began getting occasional gigs on Saturday nights, as well. As these gigs became more frequent, I came to the realization that I was going to have to leave The Second Gears. And to be brutally honest, it wasn't a very difficult decision. I did enjoy being back in a rock and roll band, but I just didn't think the group was coming together. With my brothers, I had gotten used to playing up to twelve sets a week, along with rehearsals to learn new material. By contrast, I don't think The Second Gears ever met up more than once a week, and the band was still trying to master songs that my brothers and I would have had down in a few run-throughs.

At the next Second Gears rehearsal, I made the announcement that our next gig was going to be my last. The band didn't take the news too well. Dan tried to browbeat me into staying - "you can't just walk out on us!" - and I ended up exchanging some harsh words with him. I called the band "a bunch of amateurs" who didn't have the drive to be a first-class group. Dan ended up kicking me out of the band right then and there. I yelled that I'd have my drums out of there the next day, then got up and sort of stomped out...well, with as much stomping as one can do with chipmunk feet.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt pretty bad about the stuff I had said. I remembered my promise to Mrs. Gorman - that I would be somebody who would make her proud. Well, she wouldn't have been very proud of Theodore Chipmunk that night. And I knew what Mrs. Gorman would want me to do to try to make things right. As much as I hated doing it, I needed to apologIze. I ended up spending all day riding the subway here and there, tracking down my now-former bandmates to say I was sorry. It was just like Mrs. Gorman used to tell us: "A second to break, all day to mend."

Playing with the HJQ was fun, but it was also challenging. Our repertoire was mainly bebop, with a few Herb Alpert-type poppier tunes thrown in. The pop stuff was easy enough, and I could sort of slip into auto-pilot during those if I wanted to. But the jazzier stuff was a lot tougher for me. I know some jazz drummers can get right into the groove at a moment's notice, but for me, it always required a weird balance of deep concentration and improv skills.

Dave Brubeck's "Take Five" was the toughest number for me. I got to take a solo for almost two minutes in the middle of that one, but the song is in 5/4 time which, as a rock drummer, I had a tough time staying on. The pianist Hiro usually played the piano lick pretty loud during my solo just so I wouldn't get lost. The guys were really supportive, though. In rehearsals, they would encourage me to open up more, and to "go off script", as Hiro liked to call it. Either they really liked my drumming, or else jazz drummers were in really short supply.

In late April, I finally finished the additions I wanted to make to my apartment. The living room now had two additional "upstairs rooms". I thought of one of them as my "library". I kept most of my books and sci-fi magazines there, as well as a lamp, radio and comfortable chair. The second was my "practice room". I kept my old set of drums up there, along with my ukulele and other musical stuff. The dining room had one upstairs room, which I called my "vault". It was just storage for the books and records I didn't use too much, but didn't want to get rid of. (The records I listened to regularly were next to my hi-fi in the living room.) I added some steps in the kitchen, and built a raised grate in the shower. I guess it's only natural that I wanted to show it off, so I invited Simon over for dinner.

"You had informed me that you had undertaken some home renovation projects," Simon recalls, "but not the full scope of them. I was taken aback when I saw the result. At the risk of sounding belittling, it was difficult for me to believe that you had accomplished so much, with or without aid. Not just your skill in creating such a complex creation, but your determination in seeing it through to completion."

Simon pauses before continuing. "It is a bit strange, in retrospect. To my way of thinking, Alvin always remained Alvin. He grew up, and eventually matured, but my mental image of Alvin rarely needed more than an occasional tweak. My mental image of Theodore, on the other hand, seemed to need updating on a regular basis. I am not sure if that is because I continually fell back on viewing you as the shy awkward chipmunk of your youth, or because you continually were pushing yourself outward."

Dinner was just Chinese take-out, but it was great to have a chance to catch up with my brother. Simon's post-graduate studies were going well, and he was giving some serious thought to becoming a professor himself. "I had greatly enjoyed a few of my professors' classes, and was contemplating following in their footsteps. Originally, I believed my high voice and small stature would prevent me from being a quality professor, but I had begun to consider methods by which I might overcome those obstacles."

Meanwhile, I told Simon about my financial worries. Playing with the HJQ at least had given me some steady income, but it still wasn't quite what I was spending. I still had a good chunk of change in the bank, thanks to the sale of the house and the ongoing Chipmunk royalties. But I didn't like the idea of spending more than I made every month. Drumming no longer appeared to be paying the bills - or all of them, anyway. Was it time for me to go out and get a "real job"? If so, doing what?

Simon looked thoughtful for a while, then said, "I believe I know of a potentially lucrative field for you to pursue."

"What?"

Instead of answering, Simon simply held out his paw to the platforms I had constructed.

"...what? Building these?"

"And the kitchen refurbishments. And other similar projects - bed lofts, storage shelves, and the like."

I looked doubtful. "There's not THAT many rodents in New York City."

"There are a fair number," argued Simon. "And every last one of them lives in a human-sized apartment or house. Which means all of them could potentially benefit from your creations. And there is no reason why humans might not need similar improvements to their homes."

"I dunno. You really think others would go for this sort of thing?"

"What was your initial reaction upon seeing your neighbor Rusty's place?"

I smiled. "OK, point taken, but...well, how do I find customers and everything?"

Simon poured himself another small glass of wine. "Actually, I am not certain. Allow me to mull this over for a time. Neither marketing nor business is my forte, but I believe we could formulate a plan that might provide you with a potentially sizable customer base." He offered to put together a business plan, and I readily agreed to that. I still wasn't sure about the whole idea, but I had faith that Simon could determine whether it would be worth taking the plunge.

Later that same week, Hector James's fiancée was attacked on the street, and taken to the hospital. The rest of the band met Hector there, as a show of support. He took the attack really hard. For the next week or so, he could get through the sets OK, but not surprisingly, he wasn't his usual happy self.

Hector had only recently begun writing songs, and his first few had been fairly simple bop-type numbers with titles like "Summer Evening". But after the attack, he wrote a moody piece called "Hospital Waiting Room". It was somber and a bit discordant. We would all do a bit of improvisation on it when we played it live - sometimes stretching it out a bit, sometimes cutting it short. Improv was never my strong suit, but I did my best to try to keep up.

One night, I was feeling a bit adventurous, and I didn't play the brushed drum beat to kick off "Hospital Waiting Room" like I normally did. Instead, I gently tapped the side of my snare to count off the beat, occasionally dropping a sudden heavy kick drum in. The rest of the guys - all much better musicians than me - immediately responded, making their parts slower, draggier, creepier.

Before my eyes, I watched the song become something completely different.

Up until that point, I had never thought of "Hospital Waiting Room" as anything more than a simple piece of music. Even knowing the backstory behind it, it just seemed like a sad song about a sad event. But that night, I actually felt it, physically. It almost felt like I was back in that hospital waiting room - tense, sad, hoping against hope for a scrap of good news.

I'd like to take credit for that, but I can't. I just tried doing something a bit differently. Messing around, really. It was all Hector and Hiro and Jimmy. They heard what I was doing, and between the three of them, they recognized what to do with it, and where to take it. They turned it into...well, I'll say "art". And at that point, I just had to not screw up anywhere. Which thankfully I didn't.

After the set, I chatted with the others. "'Waiting Room'?" I said. "That...that was..."

"...that was why I do this," said Hector. The others just nodded. Nothing more really needed to be said. It was a real honor to play with those guys.

Around that same time, it was Simon's turn to invite me over for dinner, and we met at a pizza joint near his campus. He had completed his business plan, listing all the things that I would need in order to get a business up and running. As I expected, the list was extensive. I would need a full set of tools - I had used Rusty's to do my place. I would obviously need a way to get the materials to the job sites, so I was going to need a truck...and of course the truck would need to be retrofitted so I could drive it. Throw in money for advertising and materials, and it all added up to making a huge initial outlay. I probably wouldn't be making it all back until late 1967 at the earliest, and that was if I had a steady stream of projects to do.

After looking over the numbers, I frowned. "I don't know. Maybe I should just...go work at a store or something."

Simon gave me one of his steady looks through his glasses. "Is that what you would prefer to do?"

I took another bite of pizza before answering. "Well, no," I admitted. "But..." I tapped the sheet. "...that's a hell of a lot of money to fork over."

"It is," he agreed. "Which is why I would recommend one further step."

"What's that?"

"Bring aboard an investor. Someone who will furnish you with some of the start-up capital, and receive a percentage of the profits in return. This will minimize your risk."

"Hm. Maybe. But who would invest in me? Nobody knows me here, and I can't picture some rich guy throwing bags of money at a poor chipmunk."

"Actually, brother, I have already taken the liberty of lining up an investor for you. He has consented to invest half of the initial start-up capital, in exchange for half of the post-expense profits."

"Half of the start-up costs?" I couldn't believe somebody would donate that much. "That's incredible. Who is it?"

"Someone who has faith in you."

I stared at Simon, flabbergasted, who gave me a crooked smile in return.. "You? You would stake that much money on me?"

"I would not do so if I did not believe you capable of making good on that investment."

I looked over at my brother again. Well, if he thought I could do it, then damn it - I thought I could do it, too. I stood on my chair and extended a greasy paw across the table, and Simon and I shook on our new business partnership.


	23. Make Every Minute Count

22 (done) MAKE EVERY MINUTE COUNT

Things started to move fast after my meeting with Simon. Within two days, I had a full set of tools. By the end of the week, I had purchased a truck - another 1958 Chevy pickup, blue this time - and found a mechanic who would retrofit it for me. And Simon had arranged for a photographer to come take some pictures of the things that I'd done to my apartment.

Simon explains, "I felt it prudent to create some pamphlets that you could distribute, which would demonstrate the renovations that you were capable of. While those photographs were being taken, we collectively decided that we also needed photographs showing how the apartment looked before the renovations took place. Rather than dismantle your work, it was simpler to photograph another apartment in the building with an identical floor plan." Since Rusty's place was obviously out, I decided to ask the chipmunk who lived upstairs from me in Apartment 11. Salvador was sort of a "mobile cook" for the rodents at the subway terminal. He'd make sandwiches and things in the morning, then haul them over to sell to the rodents working there during their meal breaks. He'd been doing this for years - pretty much since the first rodents were hired there.

When I asked Salvador if we could have a few photographs taken in his apartment, he naturally was a bit curious what they'd be used for. I explained my new business, and invited him into my place to show him what it involved. Upon seeing my kitchen, his eyes got wide, and he immediately began asking questions. Would I be able to do something to his place? He could use a lot more storage in his kitchen, better access to his counters to make the sandwiches, and some small storage things in his front room to put his sandwich containers in. We went back to his apartment, I took some measurements, and a few minutes later, I had my first customer.

While writing up the estimate for Salvador's kitchen, I told him that his apartment should be done "in no time flat". That phrase stuck in my head as I began sawing my first pieces of wood. Eventually, it mutated into both the name and the catchphrase of my company. "HalFlat - in no time flat!"

"I ordinarily am not a fan of wordplay," said Simon, with a bit of understatement. "But HalFlat was a well-chosen name. You were in fact adding a half-story to these apartments, or flats. Concise, descriptive, and even catchy. And one cannot argue with the results.

Soon after getting the company up and running, I was enjoying one of my quiet evenings in my reading room, making my way through the latest Astounding. The phone started ringing, so I turned the radio off and leapt off the platform down onto my couch. This probably wasn't the best thing for the couch, but it was a lot quicker than taking the ladder. I grabbed for the phone and put on my best business voice. "HalFlat, in no time flat. This is TD. How can I help you?"

"So, TD," said a familiar squeaky voice. "Any chance your company can fix up an apartment in LA?"

"Alvin!" It had been about a year since I had last talked to my brother, or even heard anything about him. And hearing his voice again brought back a flood of emotions. Relief. Happiness. Nostalgia. And, I'll be honest, some resentment. That part could wait, though. "How the hell are you, brother?"

"Good! Good! Can't complain. Simon tells me you're doing all right. Being a carpenter, playing in a jazz band, all that."

"Yep, yep, yep. Getting kinda busy, but finally making a little money for a change. How about you? Last I heard, you were off on tour with Vince."

"Oh, yeah," said Alvin excitedly. "It was great. Loads of fun. Chicks all over us, too. Back home now, so I got another rock trio together. A couple beavers on bass and drums, amazing guys, crowds love it. Playing out a lot."

I felt a stab of jealousy at that. Alvin was probably just being glib, but it sounded like my brother had simply swapped me and Simon out for two other rodents, and was doing as well as we three had ever been. But I tried to swallow that down. "That's good to hear, brother."

"Well, you know. Got to keep the rock and roll going, right? Anyway, had a meeting with Dave. Talking about our next move. Last Chipmunks record - you hear it? Biggest load of crap ever. Liberty's fault for doing it without us." I briefly wondered if Simon and I were included in that "us", or if he just meant him and Dave. Alvin, however, kept on talking. "I came up with this idea. Dave loves it, and it should be a huge smash. You ready? The Chipmunks...do...Herb Alpert."

Alvin paused, waiting for me to respond, but I couldn't think of anything to say. The Chipmunks do Herb Alpert? That didn't make any sense at all to me. The Chipmunks were a kid-oriented vocal trio. Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass was a large instrumental group that appealed to the middle-of-the-road crowd. And their biggest selling album featured a naked woman slathered in whipped cream. How exactly were we supposed to "do Herb Alpert"?

I could tell Alvin was a bit disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm - or lack of response, really. So he urged me to talk it over with Simon. "He's already on board. We're going to leave this one in your paws," he insisted. "You two are the jazz guys. Just write a Herb Alpert rip-off we can fool around with." After I hung up, I shook my head. I wasn't sure if it was just the long absence, but Alvin sounded different. I couldn't recall him ever sounding quite so much like a snake-oil salesman before.

I called up Simon, and he admitted that he was already mulling it over. "I had never 'written to order' before, and I was somewhat curious as to whether I could accomplish it. In addition, there was the potential for this opportunity to become more lucrative than normal for us, as we would be the songwriters in addition to being the performers."

I went over to Simon's place a couple of days later, and we had our first songwriting session in several years. I made what I thought was the obvious suggestion - that we do this like a Nutty Squirrels single, with our voices filling in for the Tijuana Brass horn section. Simon jumped on that idea, and a few minutes later, we had a melody going that sounded sort of Herb Alpert-ish. "Ba ba ba ba bup, ba da bup..." By the end of the evening, we had the song finished. We called up Alvin and asked him to book a session on the second of January 1967, and we'd fly out to California to take part in the recording.

I don't recall what led us to fly out early to California - there was some sort of issue with getting airline tickets on New Year's Eve or something. But we decided we'd both enjoy having a few extra days to spend in California. Besides, all of Mrs. Gorman's things were still in storage, so this would be an opportunity to finally sort through it all. So we booked our flights for December 27th, and looked forward to taking what amounted to a brief vacation.

We arrived in Los Angeles early in the evening. After checking into a cheap hotel near the airport, Simon and I discussed what to do for dinner. After ticking off a few restaurants that we might want to revisit, Simon had an idea. Why not go see Alvin's new band play? Alvin had mentioned to Simon which clubs he was playing at on which nights, and his regular Tuesday night gig wasn't too far away. We decided it might be fun to surprise him there, so we called a cab and headed over.

When we arrived at the club, we saw two beavers setting up on stage, but no sign of Alvin. We introduced ourselves to them as Alvin's brothers, and Simon made a request. Might we borrow their instruments at some point, and play a song with Alvin? The brothers stared at each other, looking very uncertain.

"I don't know," one of them finally said. "Alvin might not like it."

Simon gave him a rather sinister smile. He said, "Leave Alvin to me. I have been handling him for many years." They finally agreed, and we arranged to simply walk on stage after they performed "Good Lovin'" near the end of the first set. Simon told them not to tell Alvin we were there, as we wanted to keep it a surprise. We found a table a bit towards the back, ordered dinner and waited for our brother to show up.

Alvin finally showed up a few minutes before showtime. The two beaver brothers rushed over and carried his amplifier onto the stage. Alvin plugged in, tuned up, and with no preface, he launched into the first song - "Hanky Panky".

As always, I tried to remain impartial. "This isn't the Little Rocks," I reminded myself. "They have their own strengths and weaknesses." The first song sounded kind of stilted, but then again, even the Tommy James 45 of "Hanky Panky" sounded kind of stilted. But the next song didn't sound much better, and neither did the third. By this point, Simon and I were exchanging questioning looks. The music wasn't bad, necessarily, but it wasn't really all that good, either.

The semi-disinterested set carried on until they finally performed their version of "Good Lovin'". As the last chord faded out, and the crowd politely applauded a bit, Alvin distractedly said, "Thank you. We've got one more..." His voice trailed off as he saw Simon and me walk on stage. I took the drumsticks from the drummer and adjusted myself on his throne, as Simon slipped the bass on his shoulder. He turned back to me, without even looking at Alvin, and called "Walk Don't Run". I nodded, counted off the beat and launched into the opening salvo of drum beats. Simon brought in the bass line, then looked over at Alvin.

...and Alvin just stood there, completely missing his cue.

"I was mortified," admits Alvin. "I had been talking up my trio with you two, acting like we were the best thing in southern California. Truth was, we were just playing these rather crappy places for a few bucks a night, and didn't really have any fans to speak of. And with about ten seconds of 'Walk Don't Run', you showed just how amateurish my set was. You had already blown us off stage...and the song had barely even started. I felt about two inches tall.

"But then Simon gave me this small smile, and nodded at me. And...I think I got it. It was like he was saying 'Come on, Alvin. It's OK. It's us. Let's rock and roll.' I returned the smile, turned my attention back to my guitar, and started playing. It wasn't our best performance of 'Walk Don't Run', but it still sounded so much better than what I'd just been playing. It felt great to be playing with my brothers again."

The set ended after that song, and Alvin followed us over to our table. "Sorry you guys caught us on an off night! These guys just aren't finding the groove tonight..."

Simon wasn't having any of it, and cut him short with a look. "Brother, I shall be brief. During the first set, I observed you playing in front of those two brothers. Might I suggest playing with them, instead." Simon stood up, left money on the table for our tab, and told Alvin we'd see him tomorrow. Then we headed back to the hotel.

Alvin admits, "I sat at the table after you guys left, trying to figure out what Simon had meant by that. And I couldn't dope it out. I more or less decided that Simon was just blowing smoke under my tail. I got back on stage, and started the second set. And at some point during that set, I glanced over at Chip the bassist, who gave me this nervous look back. And I thought, kind of condescendingly, 'Simon would never look at me like that.' And that's when I finally got it.

"When I played with you two, you guys pushed me...and I'd like to think I pushed you in return. We nudged each other to play better. And that wasn't the case with these two. I wasn't pushing them forward. If anything, I was holding them back. I was basically paying the Benson brothers to quietly back me up, so that AL-VIN could be the star. Or whatever the equivalent of a "star" is when you're playing in front of forty disinterested people. I had roped a couple of musicians with low self-esteem into being my musical backdrop. No wonder we didn't sound anywhere as good as The Little Rocks."

Alvin pauses. "But even after I figured that out...I didn't change anything. Because, honestly, I didn't want to. The Benson brothers were pretty good musicians. Not as good as you two, but good enough. I could have done what Simon hinted at - worked with them, pushed them to get better. But given the choice of being in a good rock and roll band, and being all-capitals AL-VIN...I chose being AL-VIN. As always." Sighing heavily, he adds, "It's depressing to think how far down I had already gone."

Meanwhile, I was off having a great time being back in Los Angeles. I went out to lunch with Joan, and spent a whole day hanging out with Scooter. And Alvin, Simon and I finally had the chance to go through all of Mrs. Gorman's things. We found a few personal things we wanted to keep, but most we took to an estate sale. Saturday night, Simon and I toasted in 1967 in our hotel room with a bottle of 7-Up - neither of us were that big on champagne.

Two days later, we went into the studio to record our Herb Alpert-type number. It was actually kind of nice to see Dave Seville again - it had been almost two years since we were last in the studio with him. He had brought in a few horn players to supplement our Nutty Squirrel-like vocalizations. We gave the song a couple of run-throughs, and it sounded pretty good. So we started the tape rolling, gave it a first take...and nailed it.

"I loved doing that song. It was like I had finally joined the Nutty Squirrels," says Alvin, grinning. "It may not have been as good as the actual Nutty Squirrels albums, or even the Beatles stuff we had done, but it was still a lot of fun."

Simon agrees. "It may have been a frivolous number, but it was very enjoyable to record."

On the record, Alvin was back in "mess up mode", but it was more fun than our standard "AL-VIN!" number. He yelled "amoeba!" after the bridge instead of "arriba!", which made everybody in the studio laugh. We ended the song with some car horn sounds, much like the ones from Herb Alpert's "Tijuana Taxi". Then Dave added, "Sorry about that, Herb"...which we made the title of the song. If there was any drawback, it was that we only did the one song. We double-tracked our vocals, and were done about ten minutes after we started. It seemed like kind of a waste to have flown three thousand miles just to knock something out so quickly. We didn't even record a b-side, letting Dave to record another instrumental for it called "The Apple Cart".

The record didn't come out for a few months. "I no longer recall the issues Liberty was enduring at the time," Simon admits, "but whatever they were, they significantly delayed the release of the single. Eventually, it was released on the Dot imprint."

The label may have been new, but the chart performance was not. "The record failed...in two ways, actually," says Alvin. "It didn't sell worth a damn. And I'll be honest - I hoped letting you two write it would get you interested in doing more Chipmunks records. I wasn't happy with the random selections that Liberty was making for each Chipmunk album. I was kind of hoping that having you two write a good song would get you more interested and involved in the whole process, and maybe that would get Liberty to give us some more control." Alvin shrugged. "But neither of you really seemed to pick up on any of that. You enjoyed yourselves, but you both seemed pretty keen to head back to New York."


	24. Or, Should I Say, She Once Had Me

I flew back to New York in early 1967, and had to hit the ground running. There were two full apartments and a kitchen that I had already lined up to HalFlat, and I came home to a stack of messages looking to hire me to do more. It was becoming pretty clear that I really needed a full-time workroom. So, in the middle of doing those projects, I worked on one of my own. I rearranged some furniture, and converted my old "music room" into my new (tiny) bedroom. Once that was done, my old bedroom officially became my workroom.

As grateful as I was for all the customers, I had no idea how I was going to get them all done, let alone "in no time flat". I finally did the obvious thing - I hit up Rusty for help. He knew about my business venture, and although he never said anything about it, he must have felt a bit miffed that I had taken his basic idea and made a career out of it. So I went over to his place, and we worked out a deal. Any evening or weekend that he wanted to, he could come next door and pitch in, and I'd pay him for his time. If he wanted to work one hour, or ten hours, that was up to him. Rusty (and Bernice) loved this idea, as it gave him extra money without making specific demands on his time. He usually stopped by a couple of times a week, and worked until he got tired or bored.

The orders got so deep that I made the difficult decision to leave the Hector James Quintet. I was starting to play gigs while feeling worn out from building stuff all day, and that just wasn't fair to the other guys. I did offer to stay until they found a replacement for me. Good thing for them, too, because they didn't find someone for almost two months. I had almost started wondering if they were actually looking for a new drummer, but Hiro insisted, "We can't play with just anyone." Finally, they found a great drummer named Walter. I got him up to speed on their repertoire, and then I was once more out of the live music business.

With no more gigs to worry about, I began stopping by a bar down the street once or twice a week to unwind after a long day. The Dirty Rat was pretty much in the middle of Vermintown, and had made some alterations to reflect the clientele. They had raised the floor at the far end of the bar, and set up some smaller barstools there so rodents could reach the bar easier. I'd go down there after a long day of working, and have a short beer, or maybe split a rodent shot with someone. For a rodent shot, you'd get a standard shot of something in a standard shot glass. You'd knock it back but only take half of the shot into your mouth, then hold it there as you passed the glass to someone else. They'd pour the rest of the shot into their own mouth, and then you'd both swallow. Then they'd put the shot glass down, and you'd both flick it with your paw at the same time. It was a friendly sort of way to say hello (with alcohol).

Which is how I met Ramona.

I didn't see a lot of female rodents at the Dirty Rat, and the few I saw were usually with their husbands or boyfriends. From what I understand, rodent females in New York rarely ventured out alone, even into a rodent-friendly environment like that. Even when there was a female alone there, I never approached her. My self-esteem had improved over the years, but I was still pretty useless when it came to girls.

Luckily for me, it was Ramona who made the first move. I had just sat down at the bar when she walked up and said, "Hey, I'm Ramona. Want to share a shot with me?" I was so surprised that I had no idea how to respond. I think I said "Me? Really?", but with a lot more sputtering and stammering. She took that as a "yes", and ordered the shot for us. We started talking, and within minutes we were chattering away like old friends. As friendly as she was, I was completely floored when she asked me if I'd like to take her home. I did say yes, though - this chipmunk wasn't that tongue-tied.

I woke up the next morning, and blearily watched Ramona finish getting dressed. As she headed down the ladder towards the door, I managed to squeak out "Wait!" I stumbled out of bed, and tried to get my underwear back on. "Uh...Ramona...will I...will I see you again?"

Ramona smiled indulgently. "Of course, TD."

I smiled. "So, uh...tonight, then?"

She kept smiling but shook her head. "No, not tonight. I never see a guy again for at least a week after...you know, the first time."

"A week? Why not?"

"So they don't get the wrong idea."

"...the wrong idea? But I thought...I mean, you and me..."

Ramona touched my chin. "That right there? That's the wrong idea." She sighed. "TD, you're cute. Fun to talk to. And not bad in the sack. But I don't want a boyfriend."

"You...you don't?"

She shook her head. "That's not me. We can be friends. Get together, have some drinks. Maybe fool around once in a while. But that's it, OK?" She opened the door and gave me another smile. "I'll see you at the bar, OK? Bye, TD." She left, closing the door behind her.

I stood there in the middle of my living room in my underwear, staring at the closed door, trying to take in the whole last twelve hours. I'd never met a girl like Ramona. She was fun, outgoing and as sexy as rodents got. I was still totally excited that she had come home with me, but now it seemed like I had screwed something up somewhere. She said she never saw a guy again for the second time for at least a week. That suggested that this wasn't unfamiliar territory for her - that she had climbed into plenty of other beds. And I wasn't sure how to feel about that.

I climbed up into my reading room with my ukulele, and began playing the Beatles' song "Norwegian Wood". And as I started chirping the lyrics to myself, I started to feel better. About myself. About Ramona. And about us. Or as "us" as we two would ever get. OK, so she didn't want a boyfriend. And maybe she had other guys she saw, and fooled around with. Why shouldn't she? I had fun with her. I could still hang out with her. And probably even fool around with her again. That was all right. It didn't have to be "girlfriend or nothing".

I finished the song and smiled to myself. Two years earlier, a Beatles song had gotten me laid. And now, another of their songs had gotten my head back on straight after being with a girl. Man, was there nothing that Beatles songs couldn't do?

1967 was the Summer Of Love. And, a few months before the summer actually began, Ramona ended up my best teacher. Not about "love", really. But about "free love", about sex, about girls in general. Before I met her, the opposite sex was a huge mystery that baffled me, and even frightened me a little. But Ramona helped me understand girls a bit more. No, Theodore Chipmunk wasn't suddenly an expert on women - far from it. But Ramona at least got him over the fear.

Ramona and I stayed friends. We'd see each other once or twice a week, and go home together once in a while. It was a bit awkward at first when I'd see her chatting with another guy, and I'd think about the fact that the guy was probably one of her bed-friends, too. But I got over it, or at least I got used to it. That was Ramona. She befriended whom she wanted, and bedded whom she wanted, and all of us were cool with it because occasional-Ramona beat no-Ramona-at-all.

I was a bit hesitant to tell Simon about Ramona. I don't know why, really, but I thought he wouldn't approve of our relationship. That, and Simon and I never really talked about sex, so it was a weird topic to suddenly start talking about. But one day, he called while Ramona was over, and I had to tell him, "I actually have a girl over right now - can I call you back?" And when I finally did tell him the details, Simon's approach was, as always, logical. "It was perhaps a bit surprising to find you in a casual physical relationship," Simon admits. "Only because my mental image of you was as something of a hopeless romantic. But you appeared to be happy, and from all accounts, she was happy as well. Therefore, I had no objections at all."

In one of my monthly phone calls with Alvin, I told him that I was "kind of seeing this girl". I didn't go into detail, even though he kept wanting to know more. "I thought you were pulling my leg," says Alvin. "That you were just pretending to have a girlfriend, to make yourself look good. I don't know why I thought that, really - you weren't the type to lie about stuff like that. But I guess I thought that if you were still a virgin, then my less-than-stellar track record around the time would've been no big deal, so I guess that explains that. But Simon backed you up. He said he'd met this girl, and that she was real enough. He wouldn't tell me anything more, though. 'If Theodore does not feel it prudent to discuss it, then it would be improper of me to reveal anything further.' Come on, you guys!"

But I wasn't the only one who wasn't telling everything. Towards the end of the year, Alvin was approached by Dave Seville about the plans for the next Chipmunks release, and Alvin let Dave know that Simon and I weren't going to be able to make the sessions. This was a straight-up lie, actually. Alvin never even bothered bothering telling us about the project. He sort of shrugs this off today.

"I probably should've at least let you know about it. But I sort of thought of it this way. You two might have decided to come take part in it, just out of a sense of obligation. But if you did, that would make you less likely to come out next time. And I was pretty sure that this album wasn't going to be worth the trip. If anything, it might have made you think 'well, let's not do that ever again'. I figured it was easier to just say 'no' for you."

The idea was for The Chipmunks to record songs from an upcoming movie musical. There was nothing too outlandish about that, since movie musicals were still big business in 1967. At the time, in fact, it probably seemed like a good early call by the folks at Liberty. There was already plenty of positive press around this movie, and it looked like the Doctor Doolittle movie starring Rex Harrison was going to be a massive hit. I mean, it was a movie musical, featuring a man who could talk with the animals, with a romantic subplot to boot. How could it possibly fail?

This was the first full Chipmunks session with only one of us participating, and Alvin recalls what it was like. "It was strange, really strange," Alvin recalls. "Liberty called in two of the rodents who sang on that Go-Go album. A chipmunk named Bob, and a squirrel - don't remember his name. They were OK. Good singers, at any rate. But it was the first time that being in the recording studio really seemed like work. Not a bad job, really, but still a job. I mean, doing the children's album a couple years previous had been tedious, but you were there to suffer through it with me. With this one, I was just plugging away at it. And the whole time, I kept looking at the clock. Every song took more takes than usual. Nobody there seemed to like the songs all that much. And nobody was really enjoying themselves. There was no laughing and joking around between the takes, or even that much chatting. It was just 'ok, we're going to take that again - a bit lighter on the chorus, please'.

"We got the songs before the movie came out, so this was our first time being exposed to them. We had no context for anything. We didn't know that this was going to be sung by this particular character during that particular plot point - it was just 'here's the next song'. And the whole concept of The Chipmunks singing these songs just seemed weird to me. I mean, 'I can talk to the animals.' Um, I am an animal, right? Sort of? Or am I? The whole thing was just...off, you know?"

Alvin gives it some more thought before continuing. "I can say this now - I was starting to get scared. Like, really scared. I remember being in the hallway outside the studio, nervously sipping my coffee, waiting for them to set up so we could record 'Beautiful Things'. And it occurred to me that this was all I had. This was all I knew how to do. Simon was finishing college and teaching some classes, and you had your own carpentry business, but I didn't have anything but this. I didn't have a Plan B. And even though I pretended not to notice, I knew my finances weren't in great shape. I sat there, quietly praying that this piece of crap would be a hit, so I could get a huge paycheck out of it. But the longer the session went on, the more I realized that this was probably going to be another dud. I'd see a few modest paydays over the next few months, and that would be it." He throws up his paws. "It's one thing to do a record like 'Sorry About That, Herb'. We at least had fun doing that one. But to work your tail off on a record that you don't like at all, and watch it flop..."

The movie ended up taking forever to make, and it finally limped into theaters in December 1967. Critics didn't like it, and it opened up against Disney's The Jungle Book. It wasn't a massive bomb, necessarily, but it certainly wasn't the smash success that everybody originally thought it was going to be. And by that point, Liberty had Chipmunks records pressed and ready to go. There was really nothing for them to do but send the record out to the shops, and watch it follow the movie straight into obscurity.


	25. You Mice Gotta Get It Together

A couple of weeks before Christmas of 1967, I made reservations for four at the nicest restaurant I knew in Vermintown. I had officially earned back everything I had sunk into HalFlat, and was now operating at a net profit. Simon, Rusty and Beatrice joined me in a celebratory dinner. The cost of that dinner technically nudged HalFlat back into the red, but let's not split hairs.

"I perhaps had never been prouder to claim you as a brother," enthuses Simon. "It had been a rather arduous journey for you, but you had remained steadfast in the pursuit of your goal."

Soon afterwards, Simon called me while I was doing some work at home. "Brother," he said. "You have sent me another check."

"Uh, yeah? It's your share from last week?"

"You have repaid your debt. There is no need for additional renumeration."

"Simon, you invested in me, remember? You didn't do that just to get your money back. You deserve your share."

What followed was one of those ridiculous fights where two folks keep arguing that the other should take the money. We finally settled on Simon taking ten percent, which I only had to pay monthly. "If my memory serves me correctly, I had to threaten to tear up any check I received from you that exceeded that amount. I was already receiving money from The Chipmunks despite no labor on my part. It put me ill at ease to also be receiving monetary compensation from my brother, also with no labor on my part." Simon smiles. "However, I did manage to come to peace with it."

I splurged on a few items for the company in the new year. Simon helped me write and record a HalFlat jingle for a radio commercial. It was just a dumb bouncy sort of tune which we harmonized on. "HalFlat, in no time flat!" I had Simon do the voice-over for the commercial, since his voice was lower and easier for humans to understand. I didn't run the ads very often - only for a week or two, on one station, if orders looked like they were starting to dry up. When I ran it, I would also run a small newspaper ad. Doing so always ended up generating a bunch of extra calls to the company. Ironically, if you heard Simon and me singing "HalFlat, in no time flat", it meant I was probably getting a lot of orders right around then...which meant, if you placed an order right then, you might not get it done in no time flat.

In the late spring, I also had a few HalFlat embroidered shirts made up for myself - dark green, with the logo in white. I really liked wearing them, especially to my initial consultations, because I felt like they made me look professional. And I still remember the first job I wore one to.

At that time, my orders were still mostly rodent remodel jobs, but I was starting to get a few orders from humans, too. Obviously, humans weren't interested in "halflatting" their apartments. They were looking for things like storage shelves in closets and spare rooms, mainly for people who accumulated a lot of stuff.

A previous customer had referred me to a man who said he was interested in having his kitchen pantry redone. I had done three or four of those already by that point, and they had just been things where I had put in a few shelves - a one-day project at most. But a job was a job, and you never knew when a little job could lead to a bigger one. So I grabbed my little tool chest and took the subway down to his place.

I walked up to the building, and stared up at it in awe. This was a much nicer neighborhood than I normally found myself in. The security guard at the front desk didn't even see me approach until I handed him my card, and told him who I had an appointment with. He phoned upstairs, after which he told me to go on ahead up to the top floor.

I got up to the front door and knocked, and a man opened the door a crack, giving me a suspicious look.

"TD Henderson, sir. From HalFlat?" I pointed to the logo on my shirt. "You called yesterday about your pantry remodel?"

The man sighed. "Why didn't they send the carpenter?"

Trying not to sound too exasperated, I said, "Sir, I am the carpenter."

"I mean the one in charge."

"Sir, I am the one in charge." He still gave me that look, so I sighed a bit, and prepared to put on my best speaking voice. ("Stand tall, Theodore! Chest out, gut in, pacing, pacing!") "I founded the company, and I do all the design work. I do have an assistant who sometimes pitches in with cutting and assembly, and some of the electrical work, but I do most of it on my own."

He appeared to be softening. "That so?"

"Yep. Let me see here." I opened up the tool chest and pulled out my notebook. "I was referred to you by...Mrs. Ambrose, correct?"

"Yes..."

I flipped through the notebook, then pointed to a page. "She had me redo her bedroom closet last month. Shoe storage, laundry sorting, built in drawers." I smiled. "I did that job on my own. Didn't need my assistant at all for that one."

He didn't say anything, but he unlatched the door and opened it. I touched my cap, picked up my tool chest and followed him into the apartment. It was even swankier than I had guessed it would be from the outside. I looked around at the large open living room, and mentally began HalFlatting it. I figured I could probably give twenty or thirty rodents their own bedrooms just in that space alone.

"Very nice place you have here, sir."

"Thank you," he said automatically. He took me to the kitchen, and opened the pantry door, switching a light on from the outside. I took a look inside. It may have been the largest kitchen pantry I had ever seen. It was very deep but poorly organized, and the single bulb from above didn't do much to illuminate the shelves. My brain immediately went into creative mode, as I tried to picture how I could make the pantry better.

I opened my tool chest and pulled out a tape measure. "Would you mind if I took some measurements?"

"No, go ahead. I'm...just going to go make a phone call." He left the room, and I began stretching the tape measure up to the ceiling. While I was taking measurements and jotting down the figures, I heard him quietly talking on the phone in the other room.

"Pearl?...Hello...listen, I'm getting the pantry redone while June is in California...yeah, a bit of a birthday surprise for her...yeah, that's who I called...but you could have mentioned that he was...you know...well, yes, Pearl...yes, yes, he does seem very nice, but, you know, now there's a squirrel in my kitchen...I suppose...well, if you say so, Pearl...I need to ring off...of course...goodbye, Pearl." I heard him hang up, and he walked back in as I finished jotting down the last measurement.

"All right," I said. "Let's see what we can do with this." He hesitated slightly before walking me over to the breakfast table, and indicating which chair for me to take. I climbed up and knelt on the chair so I could reach the table easier. I looked down at my measurements, tapped my pencil against my head a few times, and tried thinking bigger. I was going to have to not just prove myself to this guy, but wow him.

I began sketching. I had never been that great at art, but over the past few years, I had gotten pretty good at drawing representations of things that I'd be building. I pointed out the features as I drew them. Deep shelves. Small lights under each one. Storage bins. Storage attached to the back of the pantry door. As I described each of my ideas, I could sense the man becoming more and more interested. He started asking questions, and actually sounded a bit excited by the end of my spiel.

"How quickly can you get all this done?"

"About a week from start date. I'm just finishing up one project, and I have another I'm starting on, but I should have the whole thing done in two weeks."

"My wife gets back from California in six days. I was hoping to surprise her with a fait accompli. Is there any way at all...?"

I closed my eyes and frowned, thinking. "Perhaps. But I'll need to have my assistant help out quite a bit. And we'll have to work long days. That's going to cost more. Quite a bit more, actually." I tapped my pencil against my head again, then wrote a figure on the sheet next to my sketch.

"Do it," he said, without hesitating. He got out his checkbook to pay the deposit.

I grinned at him. "I like your style, sir." I gathered my things and put them back in my tool chest, then took his check. "I'm gonna head over to the lumber yard, then I can get started. I'll have to spend a lot of time here on the last day installing, so make sure you have the pantry empty by then. I think you and your wife will be very happy with the results." I headed to the door, and as he opened it, I added, "Oh, and one more thing..."

"Yes?"

"I'm a chipmunk, not a squirrel." I tipped my cap once more. "See you in five days."

The next week was something of a blur. I was up at six o'clock each morning, drinking coffee and planning the day ahead. I worked on my other current project until lunch time, devoured a sandwich, then worked on this massive pantry project for the rest of the day. Rusty came over every night to help out. Once it got too late to make noise, I'd paint the panels, or run wire through them for the lights, before I'd finally tumble into bed exhausted some time after midnight.

Five days later, I spent almost half an hour in the morning loading up my truck. Rusty had taken the day off at the subway terminal to help, and we got to the apartment before nine o'clock. The installation took all day, with just a quick break for lunch, but we had everything done and the area cleaned up just after six in the evening. I accepted a nice fat check from the man (and a hearty handshake), and then took Rusty out for a well-earned Italian dinner.

I stopped by that apartment again two days later. I had forgotten to give the man some information about the lights I installed in the pantry, and I brought along a few spare light bulbs, since those small low-wattage ones weren't the easiest ones to find. The man wasn't home, but his wife June was, and she was thrilled to meet me. She told me that she "absolutely adored" what I had done with her pantry, and could she recommend me a few of her friends? Of course, I said yes, handing her a stack of business cards and pamphlets. I jokingly asked if she would mind holding off on making the recommendations for another few days, as I was still recovering from my long hours of the past week. She laughed and agreed to do so, and wow, was I happy she did.

I really have no idea who June was, but apparently she was well-connected in the New York City social scene. She appeared to have a limitless supply of friends. And once someone in that crowd did something, everybody else wanted to follow suit. Suddenly, I was swamped with requests for pantry remodels in upscale apartments. Fortunately, none of them were in a rush, so I could take them all in turn. In fact, I had to deliberately space them out so I could do some actual "halflatting" for rodents in between. By the end of the year, I had probably done three times as many human pantries as rodent apartments. And while I generally preferred doing the latter, I definitely enjoyed the money I got from the former.

One negative thing happened as the year went on - I lost Ramona. Well, I never really had her to begin with, but she vanished from my life. And she did so in typical Ramona fashion.

We met up for drinks one evening, had our typically fun time chatting about everything and nothing, and then went back to my place. The next morning, I lazed around in bed as I watched her get dressed - something I enjoyed doing. But as she finished putting on her shoes, she sighed and said, "I guess I better tell you. I'm moving."

"Moving? Where to?" I assumed she'd be moving within New York City, and maybe I could help out, since I had a truck and all.

"Seattle. New job."

"When?"

"Thursday."

"...in two days? But...why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I just wanted to enjoy the night with you, TD. Without that hanging over your head." She shook her head. "I'm no good at goodbyes." She gave me a smile. "But thanks for everything, TD. You're a good guy. Take care of yourself, OK?"

"But, Ramona..." She didn't answer. She just turned, climbed down the ladder and left.

I sat in bed, feeling more than a little bewildered. This was the second time she had left me in that position, but I didn't need a Beatles song to get me beyond it this time. Just a little thought and self-reflection.

I noticed that Ramona didn't say any of the typical good-bye things. No "we'll keep in touch" or "I'll write to you". That suggested that she wasn't interested in maintaining any contact with me. (And, as time proved, she wasn't. That was literally the last I ever heard from her.) And although I was unhappy that I wouldn't be seeing her again, part of me admired her. The way she enjoyed a friendship, and a physical relationship, without having any real obligations. When she had to go, she just left - no shattered relationship or deeply hurt feelings.

And the more I mulled it over, the more I liked the idea of that kind of relationship. And there was no reason I couldn't have it. I could find a female or two, become friends, fool around sometimes, and still have nothing tying me down. I finally decided that this was going to be the sort of relationship I was going to have with women from now on. Unfortunately, I didn't give this quite enough thought, as you'll see.

I would call Alvin maybe once a month just to catch up, although our conversations were a bit stilted around that time. Ever since our surprise appearance to see his band, he seemed more reluctant to say much about what he was doing. He would just say the band was "doing fine", then change the subject to what the Beatles were up to or something.

But in late October 1968, Alvin called me for a change. He was so excited that I could hardly understand him. Finally, he calmed down enough to tell me the news. One of Liberty's other bands was going to record a Christmas single, and they wanted the Chipmunks to be on it.

"Which band?"

"Canned Heat!"

Canned Heat? I was stunned. I wouldn't have said they were my favorite band or anything, but I had heard their song "On the Road Again" from earlier in the year, and liked it. And I was floored that a currently-popular band wanted to record with us. I called up Simon, and we worked out a weekend in November for us to fly back to California.

The scheduling was a bit tight, so Simon and I didn't actually meet the guys from Canned Heat until we pulled into the studio parking lot. Guitarist-vocalist Alan shook our paws and introduced us to the rest of the musicians. I told them I really liked "On the Road Again", and they said that they had another single about to come out that was even better. (They were right - it was "Going Up the Country".) And all three of us chipmunks spent a lot of time disavowing much of our discography. "The Chipmunks Sing With Children? Ugh, forget it." Then, just before we headed into the studio, one of the guys lit up a joint.

Before I go on, I should back up a bit. I mentioned earlier that I had tried pot for the first time while hitchhiking across the country. In the few years since then, I had run into it a few more times. Jerry from HJQ had shared a joint with me a couple times before gigs, and Ramona would bring one over from time to time. I enjoyed it enough, but it always seemed like the smoke would get deep under my fur. I always smelled like a dirty bong, or at least I felt like I did, until I took a really long, hot shower. Because of that, I never actively went out looking for it, but I'd partake if It was passed my way.

So, at the studio with Canned Heat, the joint eventually was passed to me. I took my customary mini-drag, then glanced at Simon. I could read the typically prim and proper "no thank you" in his eyes behind his glasses. So I handed it on to Alvin. Which is when I noticed this really weird expression on his face, too.

Alvin waves his paw around a bit as he attempts to explain. "Years ago, my therapist helped me notice something that I used to do a lot. I had this habit of...redrawing reality in my head, in order to protect my ego. In general, I'd convince myself that things were going great for me even when they weren't. So, think back to that time. You had your successful carpentry business, while Simon was finishing up grad school and preparing to teach. And me? I was still recording children's records once a year, and playing in a pretty crappy rock band once a week. I was starting to burn through the money I'd saved up..." Alvin stops suddenly and holds up a finger, grinning. "...I mean, all that money that Simon's legal maneuvering had gotten me. Let's be honest.

"Anyhow, although I was happy for you two and all, I still needed to feel superior. So I convinced myself that while you two were just 'existing'..." Alvin makes finger quotes. "...I was the one who was really 'living'. Which apparently meant lazing around, half-pretending to write songs and poetry, and, yeah, smoking pot. I convinced myself that I was living the life of an artist while you two were in Squaresville.

"Then you did the puff-n-pass. And it obviously wasn't your first time. In other words, you weren't as square as I had drawn you in my head." Alvin's smiled a bit. "That was the look. My ego getting punctured."

The band then told us their idea for the song. We'd start doing "Christmas Don't Be Late", they'd interrupt us and say that they wanted to record their Christmas boogie, instead. We'd argue a bit, and eventually we'd come around to their style.

Honestly, I wasn't really a fan of the concept. Our first time recording with a real band, and it was just like all of our other songs, except that Alvin's arguing with the band instead of with Dave. Couldn't we just, you know, sing? Plus, The Chipmunks came off as incredibly unhip on that record. Alan tells us, "this is 1968 not 1958", and Alvin has to pretend he's unfamiliar with the term "turn me on". But then again, it wasn't our record - it was theirs. We were just guesting on it. And even if this isn't at all what Theodore would act like, it fit the persona of "Theodore" pretty well. So I sucked it up and played along.

The recording itself was actually fun. We kind of horsed around a bit, then just let the tape run. We Chipmunks didn't even have to sing our original hit - they spliced the intro in from the original "Christmas Don't Be Late". As the take went on, the three of us started singing "we wish you a Canned Heat Christmas and a Chipmunk New Year" - which was tough, because that's in 3/4, and they were playing in 4/4. But we added a beat to each measure and made it work. Sadly, they faded the song out on the single before we got to that part.

The next morning, on our flight back to New York, Simon and I discussed how the recording had gone. We decided that although we had had a good time, we would weigh our options carefully before deciding whether or not to take part the next time.

However, it wasn't long before it was made clear that there weren't going to be any more next times.


	26. Forget About Your Worry And Your Strife

"Dave called me early on in 1969, to arrange recording dates for the next Chipmunks album," says Alvin. "It was a simple concept this time around - songs from movies. That's actually what the previous album should've been, instead of devoting the whole thing to the Dr. Doolittle film. There were a few recent tunes in the mix, but some of the others stretched back quite a ways - 'We're Off to See the Wizard' was one of the songs I sang. Dave also had us do 'Que Sera Sera' and 'Supercalif-whatever-it-was' again, because apparently the world needed two Chipmunks renditions of those songs. It was just me and Bob on this one, although we overdubbed extra backing vocals here and there. It was kind of assembly-line-like, but it was a bit more enjoyable than doing the previous album."

And the end result? Alvin shrugs. "I was a decade into recording, and I think I had finally come to grips with the fact that The Chipmunks were completely un-hip. We were recording albums for square parents to buy for their children. I mean, look at the track listing. It wasn't that far removed from Mantovani's Film Encores, you know? And once I accepted that, I could say that the album ended up sounding...well, nice. On the cover, cartoon-Dave is taking cartoon-us into a movie theater. We look especially young there, and Dave looks especially dad-like. Dave sings a fair chunk on the album, and there's not much infighting at all. The whole album is wholesome and pleasant...pretty bland, to be honest. But I think that's exactly what Dave was hoping for." The Chipmunks Go To The Movies apparently was not what the public was hoping for, though, as the album didn't chart.

It wasn't long after the album was released that Dave phoned Alvin once again. "Right from the get-go, I could tell something was up," Alvin recalls. "Dave sounded really worn out. I asked what was wrong, and he said that Liberty had decided to drop both him and The Chipmunks from the label. I just said 'so...that's it?' And he said yeah, that's it. We said goodbye...and I never spoke with him again.

"I totally did not see it coming. I mean, I knew The Chipmunks albums weren't selling all that great - my bank account told me that much. But I figured hey, we're a children's act. Surely we were selling enough to keep going. But apparently not. Liberty was cutting their roster, and they were done as a label by '71."

Alvin says he lay awake the next few nights, wondering what to do. "Technically, I could have pushed ahead with the Chipmunks brand. Recorded a single under that name, and shopped it around. I would've needed Dave's approval, because he was part-owner on the brand name. But that wasn't the real problem.

"If somebody watches the old cartoons, or even just listens to the records, they'd assume that I was the leader of the group. That I was the one who would come up with all these huge but ridiculous ideas, and then push things forward. But I wasn't really like that at all. I might have ideas, sure, but that's all they were - ideas. It took someone like Simon to take an idea and make it a reality. To start from square one, find new musicians, come up with a concept, write some songs, get a recording session together, shop it around to labels...that totally wasn't me. It was all I could do to find the Benson brothers to back me on some cover versions a couple times a week.

"I considered calling you two up again, to see if you would want to get on board. Because the opportunity was there. We could've actually take control of our musical careers for once. Dave would've still taken a slice of the profits, of course, but if we had decided to record a rock album, or a psych album, we could've. But..." Alvin shrugs sadly. "I decided not to. You guys had rebuilt your lives three thousand miles away, and you had already flown out twice to record two singles that bombed. You guys had done enough to try to salvage The Chipmunks. I also gave some thought about moving out to New York with you guys, maybe getting a day job, trying to get something going there. But calling you at that point would've felt like begging. And I had too much pride for that. Back then, anyway."

This left Alvin with very few options. "I had to do something. I hadn't ever held a job, and I don't think my ego would just let me work at a grocery store or something. So...well, I did something I'm really not proud of.

"Back when I did my not-really-a-tour with Vince, one of the few towns where we got any traction at all was Boise, Idaho. We ended up staying over a month there, playing a few gigs a week, and actually made a little money. While we were up there,

I met this female squirrel - I'll be nice and not give her name. She was a groupie, really. I spent most of my nights in Boise at her place. When we left town, I gave her my address, and she wrote me a lot. I wrote back to her a couple times, too, but nowhere near as much as she wrote to me.

"Anyway, in '69, I called her up and...well, I lied. A huge, massive lie. Told her I had this prospect for something big in Boise, and could I crash on her couch while I finalized it? She of course said yes, so I ended my lease, packed my stuff up, and headed to Boise. Moved into her place, and stayed there for a couple of years."

How does he feel about that now? "How do you think I feel about it? Like shit is how. It was a really shitty thing to do." Alvin puts his head in his paws. "My therapist suggested I contact her. To apologize, try to make amends, you know. And I tried to, but I couldn't track her down. Probably just as well. I can't imagine she'd want to hear from me again." He sighs. "AL-VIN did this sort of shit all the time, although this was probably the worst of them all. Plus, he sort of buried all the guilt and negative feelings involved with it. He left all that for current-me to deal with. Which, if you had asked AL-VIN back then about it, he would have been totally fine with it. As long as HE didn't have to deal with it, right?" Alvin shakes his head and mutters, "AL-VIN was such an asshole."

Asshole or no, AL-VIN did at least call to let me know he was heading up to Idaho "for the time being". And once more, Alvin more or less dropped off the face of the earth. I'd occasionally get a postcard in the mail, with no return address, but that was it. The Chipmunks were officially scattered to the winds.

My drum set was something of a constant reminder of this. I'd pass by it every day in my living room, usually with a tarp across it to keep the dust and sawdust off. It acted as a continuous reminder that I was no longer performing music. Occasionally, I'd sit down and smack them around a bit, just to keep in practice. At first, that was something like twice a week, but it slowly became closer to once a month.

It's not that I wasn't happy - I was. I loved my job, even when it kept me in my work room most days. I'd meet friends at the bar or at a restaurant a couple nights a week, and occasionally head out to see a band or a show. Robert came to visit once, and we took in a Mets game, even though they weren't playing the Dodgers that night. And I managed to get a couple of girlfriends, albeit not very serious ones. But as great as all of this was, I did miss playing music. Not enough to actively do anything about it, but enough to make me feel a bit down in the dumps from time to time. The only performing I did at all during this stretch of time was, bizarrely enough, in Simon's classes.

Simon had begun teaching a few courses in the autumn of 1968. "I had given a great deal of thought to overcoming all the obstacles I would encounter as a rodent professor. I lectured classes while positioned on top of a large table at the front of the classroom. I spoke into a microphone which I had plugged into my amplifier, so as to more easily reach the back rows. I made heavy use of an overhead projector, and often switched the sheets out with my feet. It was unusual - perhaps studiously so. But these maneuvers appeared to hold the students' attention. I presumably was not the highlight of their academic days, but I believed they enjoyed as well as learned from my instruction."

Simon goes on, "In 1969, I had an Introduction To Music History class scheduled the day before the Christmas holiday break commenced. Most students have trouble focusing on any academic subject on that day. I had been mulling over a way to keep the students engaged, or just entertained, even at the cost of a day of instruction."

Eventually, Simon came up with this idea. I set up my drum kit set to the side of his desk, and he announced that I was there to play some of the rhythms from the ancient cultures that they had been studying. Simon described two or three of them, which I played snippets of. But then I interrupted his next introduction, saying, "Wait, wait, wait, hold it. This is interesting and all, but don't you think the students here might want to hear something a bit more...current?" He asked what I meant, and in response, I walked over behind his desk and lifted his guitar up onto the table next to him. Then I sat back down at the drum set and launched into the Ventures' version of "Sleigh Ride", with Simon plugging his guitar into his amp and joining in a few measures later.

"The most common reaction was shock," Simon admits. "At that time, it was not that common to find professors that expressed any affinity at all for rock and roll music. And of course, having a professor actually play rock and roll in the classroom was unheard of. After the first song, I would always tell the students that they were permitted to leave if they so desired, but most of the students would remain to hear what else their instructor and his brother would perform. We were constrained by the simple guitar-drum dynamic, but we managed to locate a few semi-current songs that we could adapt." I remember doing both "Get Together" (by the Youngbloods) and "Come Together" (by the Beatles) that year. And the final song was no surprise - "Salt Peanuts". It went over really well, so Simon and I began doing it the last regular day of classes in the spring, as well. Not exactly a huge gig, but it was a lot of fun, and it eventually led to me getting back into a band.

Kenny was a student in Simon's class during the fall of 1971. And, as such, he witnessed us do our little end-of-semester performance. "That was really unexpected," he recalls. "And it must have stayed in the back of my mind. Because a few months later, I was putting a band together with two of my friends - Anton and Julian. We still needed a bass player and a drummer. I told them I didn't know a bassist, but I had seen a pretty good drummer recently."

Not knowing how to get in touch with me, he did the obvious thing - he approached Simon. "When Kenny explained to me why he wished to contact you, I inquired as to what sort of band they were forming. And his description - 'psychedelic pop rock' - intrigued me. I let him know that I played bass as well as guitar - in fact, bass was my primary instrument. He then extended the invitation to both of us, requesting that we stop by to audition in a few days."

Simon called me up, expecting me to eagerly jump aboard with the idea. But I surprised him, and maybe myself, by not sounding all that excited about the prospect. "You were surprisingly apathetic. You were adamant that your drumming skills had atrophied significantly, and that you were insufficiently skilled to even attempt the audition."

After hearing me deride my own drumming skills for a while, Simon had finally had enough. "Theodore, listen," he told me on the phone. "I would not have recommended you to the band if I felt you were not adequately skilled. And I would not have agreed to audition myself if I believed that my brother would not have the self-esteem to do likewise. So I would strongly suggest that you obtain a copy of The Yes Album, prepare the song 'I've Seen All Good People' for audition, and I shall see you here at six o'clock in three days time."

I wasn't about to disagree with Simon. Besides, despite what I had told him, the idea of getting back into a band really did interest me. I thought back to when I had started HalFlat, and came to the same conclusion that I had back then: if Simon thought I could do it, then damnit, I could do it. So I took a day off, bought a copy of the album, and set it up in my "music room". I had a record player with some headphones there, so I could listen obsessively to records without annoying the neighbors. I hated wearing headphones - the ones back then were huge and clunky, and they basically covered my entire head. But you do what you gotta do sometimes.

I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I didn't actually know the song back then. I started listening, and thought "hey, there's almost no drums in this song at all! This is gonna be a snap!" Ends up that that was just the opening part (which is called "Your Move"). Then suddenly this complex rock freak-out kicks in. I listened to it a few times, a little in awe at Bill Bruford's drumming. But I started playing along, and eventually found the groove. It was tough to pin down a few of the more complex drum fills, but I figured I could just create my own fills in those spaces, and that would be acceptable.

But then I had a thought. Simon hadn't told me if I would need to sing vocals for this band. I mulled it over a bit, and decided it'd be better to be safe than sorry. There was no lyric sheet with the album, so I sat on the floor of the music room and started playing the record over and over once again, trying to scribble down the lyrics. That wasn't easy, either, as there were several lyrics like "cause it's time and time is time" that didn't really make much sense to me. I'm guessing they made sense to Yes, though.

A couple of days later, just before six, I picked up Simon at his apartment. He tossed his gear in the back of the truck with my drums (including his organ, to my surprise), and I drove us to the audition. Kenny introduced us to Anton and Julian, then we began setting up.

"I noticed Anton looking quite uncertain as you prepared your drum set," Simon remembers. "It was rather apparent that he was reconsidering having rodents audition. But as I was worrying about this, you piped up confidently. 'Did you need me to take vocals on this?' And when Anton asked 'lead or harmony', you shrugged and said 'either'. It had not occurred to me that you would take the initiative to learn the vocals. But given the song's high-pitched lead line, it was a very prescient decision on your part."

Anton decided to let me try taking lead vocals on the song, so they set up a mic for me, and away we went. The run-through of the song went pretty well, although I did botch one of the lines. Either the guys didn't notice, or my drumming (and singing) made up for it. Simon tossed in his own curveball by playing the recorder bits from the original on his little organ. The band seemed quite happy with the way it sounded.

Anton explained that, although they'd like to have the Yes song as part of the set, the group would mainly be performing his original songs. He mentioned that he had started working on a lengthy piece called "The Last Rays of a Dying Sun", which was about aliens on a planet experiencing night for the very first time. I said, "Oh, like in 'Nightfall'? The Asimov story?"

"I believe we were sufficiently skilled to pass the audition," Simon says. "But it was perhaps your knowledge of the science-fiction realm that solidified Anton's decision to officially accept us into the group."

Anton named the band The Plains Of Io, which he apparently got from some science fiction book I hadn't read. I thought the name was pretty keen, although Simon and I did jokingly refer to the band as "poi" when Anton wasn't around. We began meeting every Tuesday night for rehearsals, and we slowly began learning Anton's songs. They all had some sort of sci-fi aspect to them, so we at least fit the band name well.

The Plains of Io had their first gig about two months later, opening for three other similar ensembles. The early seventies had a fair number of groups looking to sort of nudge rock and roll outwards, and it was exciting to be exploring new terrain, as it were. Not all of the experiments worked, of course - I ended up sitting through more than my share of failed "concept bands" - but sometimes the search itself could be pretty interesting. Our set was only half an hour, which for POI meant five songs. We closed with "I've Seen All Good People", and not surprisingly, that was the one that the crowd liked the most. But I think we held our own for our first gig.

As I was loading out, Anton asked if he could talk with me for a minute. I was worried he was going to take me to task for my performing, even though I thought I had played pretty well. As it ended up, he wanted to talk to me about something else - my clothes.

Every other band I had been in, I'd worn a suit of some sort (except for the Little Rocks, where we had those varsity jackets). But rock bands dressing alike had sort of gone by the wayside by that point. For example, look at the Beatles album covers. On their first few albums, the Beatles had worn identical suits. By Abbey Road, it looked like the four Beatles might not gave even known each other. So for my first POI gig, I had just worn a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans. And Anton found that a bit unhip. Did I have something else I could wear to the gigs? The funny thing is - I didn't. I had my suits, my work shirts, and some plain T-shirts, and that was it. I promised Anton I'd find something cooler to wear in time for our next gig.

My search for cool clothes wasn't an easy one. As always, I was stuck shopping in children's shops and departments, and most of the clothes there didn't exactly seem ideal for a prog rock drummer to wear on stage. (Rust-colored overalls? Ick.) But eventually, I got lucky and found a few things. One was a long-sleeved black-and-white shirt with a spacey pattern. The other was a blue shirt with a complex Capricorn design. Astrology was pretty big at the time, and some stores had zodiac shirts in children's sizes. I'm actually a Sagittarius, but I remember the Sagittarius shirt looked pretty dumb. Plus, I don't think they had it in my size.

POI was my first band that really felt more like a hobby than a job. With every other ensemble I had been in, the band had been my primary focus, as well as my main source of income. But now, it was just a fun thing I was doing on occasion. We rehearsed once a week, played a gig maybe once a month, I pocketed a bit of money, and that was it. And I was totally fine with that. I had my regular job, which I loved. POI was just an interesting and fun way to continue on with music.

At least, it was at the start.


	27. As Darkness Sets In

I was putting the last touches on a HalFlat project in January 1972 when the phone rang. I managed to extract myself and answer the phone before it stopped ringing. It was Simon, and as always, he came straight to the point.

"Mr. Seville has died."

I sat down heavily. Dave Seville was dead? That seemed impossible. He was only fifty-two. Simon and I agreed to take time off and head back to Los Angeles for a couple of days.

After I hung up the phone, I went digging through my record collection, pulled out an old 45 of "The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late)", and started playing the b-side "Almost Good". I tapped my paws on my knees in time to my tom tom playing, and let a few tears roll down my fuzzy cheeks. We hadn't always seen eye-to-eye, but Ross "David Seville" Badgasarian had taken a chance on us chipmunks, and it was due to him that we had had a professional music career at all.

We didn't get back to California in time for the funeral, but we went over to his house to pay our respects to Armen. She and Ross Jr were both there, and it was really good to see them again. I hadn't seen either of them in about a decade, when Ross was only about twelve years old. Now he was finishing up college and preparing to go to law school. He and Simon got into a discussion about about The Chipmunks brand, and they jokingly agreed that we four could split the rights to the "lucrative Chipmunks property" for any subsequent releases. "It was done in jest," admits Simon. "Neither of us believed that anything would ever result from it. But Ross and I maintained contact, and abided by that agreement from that day forward."

Not surprisingly, Armen and Ross asked about Alvin. Simon and I looked at each other, then we told them the truth - he had moved to Idaho, and we hadn't heard from him in about two years.

I got back to New York just in time to catch some more bad news. Rusty had an assistant down at the subway terminal, who had a similar sort of nickname - Sparky, or Squeaky, or something along those lines. I may not remember his name, but I definitely remember what happened to him. There was some sort of accident at the terminal, and a train ran him over, costing him a leg and a front paw. Rusty was really shaken up over it.

A couple of days later, Rusty told me he was trying to put together a fundraiser to help pay the poor guy's medical bills. Could that band I was in perform? I thought Plains Of Io might not be a great fit for a rodent fundraiser, but maybe Simon and I could play a few numbers as a duo. Rusty thought that'd be just fine, and mentioned that his assistant had a cousin who played soprano sax - maybe she could join us for a couple of numbers? I thought we could probably make that work, so I called up Simon to get him on board.

That weekend, Simon and I had the cousin meet us at POI's practice facility, since my drums were already set up there. She was a chipmunk named Eleanor, and quite a bit younger than I was expecting. She was a bit nervous, giggling at random times, and I originally thought that agreeing to play with her was going to be a mistake. But when we asked what songs we might try, she asked if we knew "Take Five". We gave it a quick run-through (with Simon playing the piano part on his organ), and she was actually pretty good. We decided to do that one and Miles Davis' "So What", and figured those two would make a nice closing for our set.

The fundraiser went really well. I donated a free kitchen remodel to the silent auction, and bought a lemon cake that Bernice had made. And in the late afternoon, Simon and I started our set. We made our way through much of our Nutty Squirrels repertoire, and I noted with some surprise that a few rodents in the crowd sang along with "Uh-Oh!" (Then again, who else but rodents would be most likely to remember that song a decade after it was a hit?) Afterwards, we brought Eleanor up to play our two songs. As we finished "So What", we got a nice round of applause, but Simon frowned a bit.

"It had not really occurred to me until right that moment," Simon recalls, "but 'So What' is a rather mellow piece. It was not an ideal selection to close a set, so I quickly began wracking my brain for one more song for us to perform."

He slung his guitar over his shoulder and quietly chatted with Eleanor. She looked confused but nodded. Then he walked back to me and grinned. "'Girl From Ipanema'. Surf tempo."

I grinned and slammed into my "Walk Don't Run" intro. The crowd sort of jumped in surprise at it, which was precisely what I was hoping would happen. Simon began playing the lick on his guitar, and then leaned in with his deranged vocal take. And Eleanor took the sax solo - nowhere near perfect, but with enough gusto to make up for a couple of flubbed notes. The song crashed to a close with a howl from Simon, a squealed note from Eleanor, and a massive drum fill from me.

If the crowd gave in cash what they gave in applause, they might have paid the hospital bill off that day.

Meanwhile, Simon and I continued on with Plains of Io. In some ways, the band was going fine. For instance, the other band members always encouraged me to try new things. So when we'd be working on a new song, instead of just playing the drums as usual, I might try hitting my stick against the hi hat stand, or tap my claws on the snare. I started tapping other things at home with my sticks, and occasionally bring some of them in to rehearsal - glass bottles, tin cans, you name it. Anton didn't always take my suggestions, but the band always seemed enthusiastic to try things out.

When I had to drive to other sections of New York for work, I would see if I could find a music store or an "ethnic shop" nearby, and look for unusual percussion instruments. At one shop, I bought an instrument called an afoxé - a small gourd with beads inside. The next rehearsal, I brought it in to use at the beginning of a song, and everybody agreed that it was exactly what the song needed.

One day at rehearsal, out of nowhere, Anton announced that he was changing the name of the band. He had heard a few people incorrectly say the band name as "Plains of Ten", because "Io" kind of looked like the number ten on posters and blackboards. So Anton made the decision to rename the band - we would now be Moons of Jupiter. That kind of made sense, but it was a bit strange to just have that told to us, without any discussion with the other band members. "That was Anton, though," admits Kenny. "It sounds dictator-like, but that wasn't really his way. He was actually just completely unaware. It simply would never have occurred to him to ask us what we thought."

At that same rehearsal, Anton told us we were going to be dropping "I've Seen All Good People" from our sets, effective immediately. I asked him why, and his reasoning was a bit convoluted. He said that the audience would never respect the band as long as "we had to rely on cover versions".

"That was his excuse, but it most certainly was not the reason," Simon counters. "The best response we ever received at any given Plains Of Io concert was for 'All Good People'. I firmly believe that Anton took that personally, since that was the one song we performed that he did not write. He no doubt decided to eliminate the song from the set to keep the spotlight firmly on his own compositions."

Anton did keep bringing us new material, although getting the songs ready for the stage wasn't always easy. Kenny says, "Anton was what you might call an 'idea guy'. He had tons of ideas and concepts, but he wasn't always great at fleshing them out, or even at explaining the ideas to us so we could try to translate them into songs."

When we'd be working on new material, Anton would sometimes give us some rather vague suggestions, most of which ended with "you know." I learned to hate hearing those two words from him, as it almost certainly meant that I would end up trying to guess what it was he was trying to do. For instance, once while working on a new number, he suggested that I open the song by playing the beat "mysteriously".

"Mysteriously," I echoed.

"Yeah, so kind of bring us in, lead us into it, mysteriously. You know."

"...so, quietly? A slow build?"

"No, no, no. Like, set the mood. All mysterious-like. You know."

I usually just asked him to slap the beat on a table with his hands. Then I'd at least have an inkling of what he was trying to do. ("Mysteriously" apparently means at 96 beats per minute. Now you know.)

One thing Anton was always working on was expanding "The Last Rays of a Dying Sun". Around the time we changed the band name, the song was almost ten minutes long, and the song kept on growing from there. Both Simon and I were pretty sure that his hope was to eventually expand it until it occupied the entirety of our live show. "It is not as if the idea itself were ridiculous," points out Simon. "There are some excellent album-length rock compositions. Where Anton erred was in extending a song without significantly adding anything of worth to it. In fact, the lengthier it became, the more diluted it became. It originally bore a modestly catchy motif, but he replaced it with something of a dirge-like pattern that did not hold up to repetition. I began to notice that when we performed it, audience members would begin to check their watches, and to wander off to the bar as the piece droned on."

It was a few months later that things got a bit insane. We were going through "Dying Sun" yet again during rehearsal, and Anton was trying to make the climax near the end sound more "climax-y" (his word). After we tried a few things, Anton looked back at me and said, "You know what this song needs? A gong."

I looked back at him like he'd lost his mind. "A gong?!"

"Yeah! A gong, right there. Pow."

"Anton, I don't own a gong."

"Can you get one? I think this song really needs one."

"No! I'm not gonna shell out for a gong, and try to load it into my pickup truck every time we have a gig. Especially if I'm going to hit it exactly one time per night."

Anton wouldn't let it go, though. He never got angry - that wasn't really his way - but he kept bringing it up. It seemed like nearly every rehearsal or gig after that, he'd have to make a comment about it. "You know, this song could really use a gong right there." I usually just rolled my eyes when he mentioned it, but one night, Simon lost his patience. He put his bass to his back, and stomped over to Anton.

"If you feel this song of yours can only be salvaged by the addition of a gong, I would recommend that YOU purchase the gong..." Simon jabbed his finger up at Anton's chest. "...and YOU take responsibility for getting it to gigs. And if you decline to do so, then perhaps the addition of a gong to your magnum opus is not so vital after all. In which case, I would kindly request that you stop pestering my brother about it."

"I'd never seen Simon flip out before," says Kenny. "That was intense. And kind of cool, to be honest."

Simon still gets a bit angry about the whole thing four decades later. "I believe you will confirm that I have a fairly even temperament, and I do not often lose my composure. But Anton's continual haranguing on this point was unbearably petty. Truthfully, I did not even speak up for your sake, brother. It was simply because I could not abide hearing him mention the subject again."

"And you and Simon were right," adds Kenny. "Whatever the song needed, it wasn't a gong."

Our tenure in POI/MOJ continued on its wobbly path until the summer of 1974. We were booked to play an all-day Saturday festival, with bands playing at several art galleries. Moons of Jupiter was booked to play relatively early in the day, in one of the larger galleries. I don't remember which musician taught me "some gigs you slay, and other gigs you simply survive". Whoever it was, this art festival gig was definitely from the second category. The few people who wandered into the gallery while we were playing would listen to us for a bit, glance at the art, and then leave. Not a single "fan" showed up.

Simon remembers, "That festival performance emphasized that something was fundamentally wrong with the band. And from my vantage point, the problem was obvious. To borrow a vulgar phrase, Anton had gradually disappeared up his own backside over the past few years. The band's performances were now full of vague and overblown concepts, but low on hooks, melodies, and actual songs. The band did adequately when opening for other like-minded acts, as people might passively appreciate the ideas behind the performances. But the band was unable to stand on its own. Even after a few years of performing to crowds every month, the band still had not garnered any actual fans."

Given that, it wasn't too surprising when I got call from Anton a few days later saying he was breaking up the group. I was a bit disappointed, but mainly I was relieved. Playing with Anton had become more like a chore than an enjoyable hobby. I told Anton I understood, thanked him for the opportunity, and wished him well on whatever he did next.

I did want to make sure that I stayed friends with Kenny, so I invited him to meet me for drinks at The Dirty Rat the next evening. (I invited Simon, as well, but he was busy that night.) We sat at the corner of the bar, so I could sit at a rodent seat and he could have a human-sized one. We split a rodent shot - his first - after which Kenny said, "Sorry about...well, everything. You know how Anton is."

I shrugged. "Well, after that last gig, I can imagine he was ready to try something else."

"Yeah, but it wasn't anything you guys did."

Confused, I repeated, "...anything we guys did...what do you mean?"

"You and Thomas. It wasn't your fault that we're not doing well."

"...I never said it was. Is that why Anton said he was scuttling the band?"

Now it was Kenny's turn to look confused, although that look almost immediately switched to anger. "Scuttling the band? Is that what he told you? That son of a bitch..."

"What? What's going on?"

"TD, Anton didn't break up the band. He just kicked you two out. He's auditioning new bassists and drummers this week."

"What?! But why?"

Kenny looked pained as he said, "Because...well, because nobody's coming to our gigs, and he's gotta have something to blame that on, right?"

I growled, "So...what? He thinks nobody's coming because he's got two chipmunks in the band?"

Kenny sighed and said, "No, I don't really think he thinks that. But that IS what he said. 'Nobody's taking us seriously' is what he told us."

"That's because he's up there jerking off for half an hour!"

"TD, you don't have to tell me that - I've been right there with you." He ordered another shot, then turned back to me. "Look, as far as I'm concerned, he did you a favor. You're free. You don't have to deal with him anymore. Hell, now I'm starting to think it's time I quit the band myself." He grinned. "You and Simon are too good to be stuck playing with him. Go find another band."

That night in bed, I remembered what Harry had told me over a decade ago. "Play for fun, play for cash, and in rare cases, play for exposure. Otherwise, don't play." Well, I certainly hadn't been getting much of the last two with Anton, and the first had been diminishing for some time. My main enjoyment had been coming from playing with Simon. So yeah - maybe Anton firing us was a blessing in disguise. But was there another band for us to join?

As it turned out, there was. Our longest-lasting project, born out of the biggest screw-up of my life.


	28. I Hope You're Having Fun

I've always had it in my head that it was Simon's idea to form a trio with Eleanor, but he reminds me that that isn't entirely accurate. "I simply inquired as to any musicians you might already know in the New York area. You quickly named the three musical groups of which you had been a member, and then, as an afterthought, you mentioned Eleanor. I then wondered aloud at the feasibility of forming a trio with her. So perhaps we two need to equally share the credit, or blame."

I called up Eleanor and asked if she was interested in perhaps forming a group with us. To my surprise, she sort of squeaked and excitedly said "Yes! Yes! Yes!" She had played it very cool at the fundraiser, but apparently she had really enjoyed playing with us. She in fact admitted to me that "Uh-Oh!" was the very first record she had ever bought, which made me feel honored...and kind of old.

The three of us met for a rehearsal a few days later. We went through the songs from our previous set, then we began chatting about what sort of other material we might play. "I had a very vague concept of what the trio might become," Simon recalls. "Instead of only playing either jazz or rock, I wanted to see if we might do both. I had been purchasing a few jazz fusion albums - Weather Report, and bands of that ilk. And although I generally enjoyed fusion, the albums often were placed exactly halfway between jazz and pop. I wished to endeavor to cover more ground stylistically, by performing straight up rock-and-roll and jazz in addition to a fusion of the two." Both Eleanor and I liked the idea, so we started throwing out ideas.

The rehearsals took a while to really bear fruit. Eleanor was very hesitant - she was scared that we wouldn't like her ideas, or that she'd play something discordant when we were jamming along. "It took a considerable amount of encouragement to get her to really let loose and open up," admits Simon. "But by the fourth or fifth rehearsal, she had begun to come into her own." Simon himself was on a tear - playing bass, guitar, or organ as the whim struck him. "Most likely, I had been playing bass behind Anton for too long. I was very pleased to have the opportunity to stretch out."

We came up with a rock arrangement of "Listen Here", and a jazzy take on "Them Changes". We also worked out an arrangement of the Nutty Squirrels' take of "Bye Bye Birdie". The final addition to our set was a random surprise. We were sort of futzing around near the end of rehearsal, when Eleanor improvised a riff that sounded somewhat familiar. Simon and I stared at each other for a few seconds, trying to recall where we had heard it before. Suddenly, Simon yelled "Spanish Omelets for Breakfast!" That really confused Eleanor, until we explained her riff was reminiscent of a song we had performed years ago. She laughed it off, and we quickly put together a slow version of the song that we called "Spanish Omelet Siesta".

We tossed around a few band names before settling on The Lower Level. Our trio made its debut at Riley's, a bar not far outside of Vermintown, in August of 1974. And that gig ranks right up there with our Little Rocks show at UCLA. There wasn't a huge crowd, but everybody seemed to really get into our set. The owner of Riley's liked it as much as everybody else. He asked us if we could come back to play every Thursday, and we readily agreed.

But the incredible set and great crowd reaction aren't what I remember most about that night. Instead, I remember watching Eleanor from my drum stool through most of the set. I had always sort of looked at her as an insecure but talented kid. And all through rehearsals, that's pretty much how I continued to view her. It wasn't until the actual gig that I saw her differently - as a fun and attractive female rodent.

Simon looks grim as he recounts, "We loaded up the truck, and you said that you would be driving me home first. This seemed counterintuitive, but it wasn't until we had almost arrived there that I wondered if you might be scheming to make a play for Eleanor. I attempted to dismiss the idea, but the more I considered it, the more possible it seemed." He grits his teeth. "I should have said something to you. But I did not. Whether that was due to me not being entirely sure of your plans, or due to some misplaced loyalty on my part. Either way, I regret not speaking out."

I dropped Simon off, and helped get all of his stuff out of the truck and into his apartment. Then I drove back off, chatting with Eleanor about the gig, letting her know how much I enjoyed her contributions. I suggested stopping back at my place for a drink. She sounded a bit unsure at first, but eventually agreed. I showed her my apartment, we split a beer...and a few minutes later, we were making out on the couch.

The morning after, everything seemed great. Eleanor seemed very happy, and I had had a great time, as well. I did have to drive her back home really early so she could get dressed to get to work, though. I came back home to get some HalFlat work done, whistling along to songs on the radio, feeling better than I had in weeks.

"She was twenty years old," emphasizes Simon. "You were in your mid-thirties. You knew she looked up to you as a musician, as you and I were both in essence mentoring her in The Lower Level. And consciously or not, you took complete advantage of that." He sighs. "If you had simply made her your girlfriend, potentially, things might have worked out for all concerned. Or if you had at least told her of your no-girlfriends policy. But you did not. Disaster was inevitable at this point."

Simon's words may seem a bit harsh, but honestly, they probably aren't harsh enough. I had somehow convinced myself that since Eleanor and I had never actually talked about "us", that we weren't really in a "relationship". That things were exactly how I wanted them to be - we were friends, we could fool around sometimes, but there was nothing tying me down. So for the next two weeks or so, I sort of coolly played the role of her not-really-boyfriend. We had dinner a few times, listened to records, spent the night at my place a few times. And if she seemed to be getting too clingy, I'd put her off by saying I was busy. I figured that she'd soon "figure me out".

And she did. Just not the way I was expecting.

Brenda worked for the subways, and she was one of my "on again off again" female friends. During this particular time, she was mainly off, just because our schedules got a bit too busy. But one night, I went to the Dirty Rat after a long day, and found her there. We got to chatting, had a couple of drinks, then went back to my place. And it was right about when things were getting hottest and heaviest on the couch when we both heard knocking at the front door. There was no question of who it was - only Eleanor would stop by this late. And I couldn't just ignore her knocking. So I stopped, put my pants on, gritted my teeth, and opened the door.

"Hi, TD!" Eleanor said, going in for a hug.

I hugged her back, rather stiffly. "Uh, hi, Eleanor. Um, I've got a friend over..."

Eleanor looked from me over to the couch. Brenda had put her shirt back on, and was leaning over the back of it looking at us.

"Hiya, kid - I'm Brenda."

Eleanor looked back at me, and didn't say a word. She didn't have to. Her eyes said everything. She slapped me, hard, then stormed down the hall. I feebly said "Wait..." but made no real move to stop her. I watched her leave, then sighed and closed the door.

"Another lady friend of yours?" Brenda asked as I got back to the couch. I nodded glumly. "What? She thought you was a one-girl guy?" I nodded again, and Brenda cracked a grin. "She don't know you that good, then. You didn't tell her?"

"Not really..."

"Bet you was thinking with your lower half, huh? That ain't nice, TD. You gotta tell us girls this stuff." She got dressed as I sat there feeling like a heel, then she tousled my head fur a bit. "Don't do that no more, ya hear? We girls got it tough enough as it is without you fellas laying on the bullshit. See ya around." She left, and I thought, wow, two girls walking out on me in three minutes. That's gotta be some kind of record.

It was pretty late, but I called Simon anyway. I have no idea why. Maybe I was hoping for some sympathy. If so, I didn't get any.

"I gave precisely one extended angry lecture to each of my brothers in my life," Simon maintains. "I berated Alvin when he got drunk at Junior's, and I berated you when you jilted Eleanor. It was terrible enough that you broke this young woman's heart, but in addition, she was in a band with us, and we were booked to do a show in five days time. We either had to smooth things over enough that she would consent to play with us again, or else come up with a contingency plan."

We discussed how best to do this, and Simon offered to make the phone call to Eleanor. "Not surprisingly, she wanted nothing more to do with you. Which meant we needed to put together a new group and a new set in four days. A near-impossibility, but it is surprising how positive results can occasionally come from very adverse conditions."

We put out a call to everybody we could think of, and managed to find three musicians who were at least somewhat interested in giving it a go - Kenny, and two colleague of Simon's. The problem was that none of them were available at the same time during the week, in order for us to get together to rehearse. But that's when Simon had a genius flash of insight. "Although there was no time we could all meet collectively, each of them could meet us two at some different point during the week. So rather than form a band with all of them, I decided that you and I could form a base duo, and each of the three could perform a set with us in turn."

For the next three nights, we met at our rehearsal spot with a new musician, starting with Kenny. He recalls, "We decided to stick mainly with older rock and roll instrumentals, since you already knew a lot if them. A few I wasn't very good at. I sort of fumbled my way through 'Wipe Out', but I couldn't get 'Walk Don't Run' down, so we dropped that one." We also tried two vocal numbers with Kenny. I took lead on "Maybe I'm Amazed", and Kenny handled "Ain't No Sunshine". "I wasn't really prepared to sing lead at the first gig," admits Kenny with a grin, "but I muddled through."

We met up with our other two musicians the next two nights, and managed to cobble together a set list. After the last rehearsal, I asked Simon how he thought the gig would go. He said it would either somehow work itself out, or else we'd suddenly find ourselves with Thursdays off again.

From the second we got to Riley's, it wasn't looking good. On the chalkboard out front, it announced that the night's band was going to be "Cemented". "I had telephoned the manager earlier in the week to announce a name change," explains Simon. "We technically were no longer The Lower Level. Since we did not have time to select a new moniker, I decided to cobmine our real names - Simon/Ted. Somehow, the person on the other end of the connection misunderstood, which is how it became corrupted to Cemented." We were a bit upset by that. I mean, what sort of name was "Cemented"? But we didn't have time to argue, as we had a gig to perform.

For a while, it looked like Cemented may not even get off the ground. Kenny had some difficulty setting up. "There was a short in my amp or something. I couldn't get any sound out of it. I tried this and that, and nothing seemed to work." Not only that, but our other two musicians hadn't arrived yet. Simon and I stood there on stage trying not to look too nervous as the gig seemingly fell apart around us. Ten minutes after start time, Simon finally got desperate.

"Play something," he whispered to me.

"Um, what should I play?"

"Anything!" he hissed.

I picked up my sticks, tapped out a tempo, then started into a midtempo groove. I think I had an Al Green song in mind - "Tired of Being Alone", maybe. Simon nodded along with the beat for a bit, then began improvising on his bass along with me. He added some runs, I tossed in a few fills, and we just stood there grinning at each other, letting the groove run on.

Suddenly, we heard a loud "squawk" - Kenny had finally gotten his amp working. Simon gave me a nod, and we wrapped up our little improv piece, to modest but pleasant applause. "Thank you," said Simon into his mic. "He is TD, I am Thomas...and apparently, we are Cemented." He then introduced Kenny, and the set went rather smoothly from that point on. Simon's colleagues - a violinist and a trumpeter - both did well in their sets, and they both joined Kenny, Simon and I on stage for a finale.

Simon admits, "I do not believe anybody present would have said the premiere Cemented gig was exemplary. Not everything we attempted was successful. Most notably, on a whim, we decided to play 'Band on the Run' as a finale, and that is not the sort of song one should attempt without a good deal of rehearsal. But the show was enjoyable. It was something out of the ordinary."

The owners liked it enough to have us back the next week. Unfortunately, Kenny wasn't available that particular night. "But I thought, hey, I know somebody who might like to try this sort of thing. I called up my friend Walter, and he said sure, it sounded like fun. So he took part in the second Cemented gig." This substitution set the stage for what followed. Every week would be Simon and me...and a combination of some other folks. And each week, we did well enough that we got asked back the following week...and then the week after that.

Simon and I spent about a month trying to come up with a better name for this not-really-a-band, but we didn't really come up with anything. So we decided, what the heck, we'd just stick with Cemented. We also decided to keep doing an improvised piece as a duo for our opening number. Simon explains, "It was happenstance the first time, but in retrospect, it was an ideal introduction to a Cemented performance. It presented us with an opportunity to demonstrate what our roles would be. With that completed, we could turn the spotlight over to our guests."

At first, Simon and I would just take turns starting off our opening improvised number. But eventually, we took to each flipping a nickel on stage. If they turned up the same (both heads or both tails), I started the piece. If we got one heads and one tails, Simon started.

A few months after we began the Cemented gigs, I decided that I didn't really like where I was situated. When our guests would be playing, it was tough to see around them. Finally, I got smart and built a collapsable riser. It put Simon stage left and me stage right at the rear, leaving the center front for our guests. "The riser was very welcome," agrees Simon. "Now both the performers and the audience were visible to us, and we in turn could be seen by the crowd. But with the lights kept low on us, we wouldn't overshadow the guests."

The coin flip and riser eventually led to a more stylized opening for the Cemented gigs. Simon and I would enter the stage from opposite sides (usually to a modest amount of applause) and shake paws at the center. Then we'd climb the steps onto the riser, and take our places at opposite sides. We'd flip our coins, give a thumbs-up or thumbs-down depending on the result, then launch into our little jam. Once we finished that, I'd get on the mike to thank everybody for coming, and to introduce the first guest.

We made sure everybody knew that we were on the lookout for more musicians who might like to be a part of a Cemented gig. Our first musical guests told their musician friends, some of whom came to take part...who then in turn told their friends. On occasion, if they asked, we'd meet up beforehand to hash through some songs, but more often than not, we'd just wing it. A couple of our musical guests weren't very good. Others were mind-blowing. Some came by, did one song at one gig, and never came back. Others would do several songs with us once or twice each month. We might play tight versions of rock and roll numbers, or fumble through a first-take cover, or do some bop-style-jazz, or something more free-form. And that was sort of the appeal of Cemented - nobody really knowing what was going to happen next.

One question we get asked a lot - who was your favorite Cemented guest? Simon diplomatically says, "It is impossible to choose one. Over the years, it has been the sheer variety of the acts that has made Cemented special, not any one performance." But he does mention one act that did stand out for both of us. "We once had an African drum ensemble take the stage with us, although if memory serves, it was only part of the full group. But you played your percussion instruments, and I improvised a percussive bass part while they performed. It was truly a transcendent performance."

One other performer who stands out was Blind Squirrel Jones. The name was sort of a joke, since he wasn't actually blind. He was a squirrel, though. He just showed up one Thursday and asked if he could do a number with us. We decided, sure, why not, and put him on at the end of the night. He had Simon and me play a slow blues-y stomp, and he played guitar and howled a self-penned number called "Hidden Nut Blues", playing a bit of harmonica here and there. It was borderline insane, but the crowd loved it. He'd show up maybe once a year just to do that one song.

In a sense, Cemented was an ideal forum for me to scratch my musical itch. It was always exciting and different, but it didn't take up much time from my daily life. Occasionally, we might meet up with a musician early in the week, if they wanted to run through some material. And from time to time, Simon would have us pose for some promo photos. But otherwise, it was just three hours out of every Thursday, for almost six years. And it looked like this would be the modest but enjoyable coda to my music career.

But it just goes to show that you never know what you final act will be...and when it will begin.


	29. I've Been Stuck In For Too Long

January 5th 1980. I had completed a huge HalFlat project earlier in the day, and I had planned to head out to The Dirty Rat for a drink to celebrate. However, snow was in the forecast, and I always avoided being out in the snow at all if I could help it. So instead, I started pulling apart my Christmas tree.

My first December in New York, I had been feeling a little down, so I had started a little holiday tradition for myself. I had gone out and bought the smallest tree I could find, along with a single string of colored lights, and put the tree up in the corner of my living room. And while doing that, feeling a wave of nostalgia, I had played both Chipmunks Christmas albums. I've since learned that many families with children have made it a tradition to play those albums while trimming their Christmas trees every year. That's something that still makes me very happy. Perhaps it will make you happy to know that at least one of the Chipmunks does the same thing every year.

I'm guessing it's less of a tradition to take down the Christmas tree while listening to The Wall by Pink Floyd, but that's what I was doing this particular night. I can't claim to be a huge Pink Floyd fan, but this album was sort of The Big Thing, album-wise, right at the start of 1980. So I had bought a copy, and then let it sit there for a week or so until I could find a time to "really listen to it". Some albums seem to demand you give more attention to them, at least for the first few listens. And it didn't seem to make sense to try to "get" the new Pink Floyd album while sawing and hammering in the work room. But dismantling the Christmas tree seemed like the ideal time to give it both fuzzy ears, so I cued up the first side and got to work.

I was only a couple of songs in when the phone rang. I turned the music off, and since it was late, I didn't answer it with my work spiel. I just said, "Hello?"

There was a slight pause, then I heard a quiet voice say, "Hello, brother."

"...Alvin?!" It was the first time I'd heard his voice in over a decade. "How the hell are you, brother?"

"Good. Good," he said automatically. Then he stopped, probably because he realized his answer didn't sound convincing in the slightest. "Actually...not so good."

I sat up straighter on the couch. "What's going on? What's the matter?"

"It's...everything. See, I've got this landlady, and..." Alvin stopped and sighed heavily. "It doesn't matter. Theodore, she's going to kick me out."

"How come?"

I heard Alvin swallow, hard, even over the long distance line. "Because...uh...because I can't make rent."

"You can't make rent? Not even with...?"

Alvin was instantly angry, although it was clear that he was far more upset at himself than he was at me. "Yeah, I'm broke, OK? Your screw-up brother done screwed it up big this time."

Alvin says now, "People like to say the seventies was the worst decade ever. But they're usually talking...what? Watergate, polyester pants and 'Afternoon Delight'. For me, it really was a terrible decade, pretty much from start to finish.

"The seventies opened with me still living with that groupie in Boise. She was nice enough - or, let's be honest, a big enough chump - to let me stay there way longer than she should've. I was in a band, sure, but we rehearsed once a week, and maybe played one gig a month. I wasn't even making enough to pay for my share of the groceries. Not that I offered.

"Finally, she'd had enough. Told me I had a month to get another place to live. Luckily, I found a job right after that, so I told her to fuck off and moved out to a cheap hotel until I got my first paycheck. Great payback for two years of free room and board, huh?"

Alvin sighs, then goes on. "A local UHF channel had been looking for somebody to host their afternoon cartoon show. And as luck would have it, The Alvin Show was one of the featured cartoons. So who better to host than Alvin himself? But after they hired me, they decided that since I didn't look much like the cartoon Alvin, it would confuse the kids if they introduced me as Alvin." Alvin spread his paws open. "I guess that makes sense. So in September 1971, I became Chester Chipmunk, host of Cartoon Junction. Every afternoon, I was there wearing this black T-shirt with a white star on it - it tied into the station's branding somehow. They gave me something like twenty of the things - still own a couple. I'd chat a bit, show drawings and read jokes that the kids had sent in, and introduce the shows. And yeah, it was pretty weird having to introduce myself. 'Now it's time for my favorite chipmunk pals - Alvin, Simon and Theodore!' It felt really hokey at the time, but they treated me well, and the pay was pretty good. Once in a while, I'd do a public appearance at a bowling alley or library, and the kids were pretty cool.

"I was there for six or seven years when they let me go. I think they were dropping The Alvin Show, so maybe when those chipmunks went, I had to go, too. Anyway, I got a bunch of headshots from the station's promotion department, and I sent them out everywhere looking for a similar job. Heck, it was the only job I'd ever had, so may as well keep doing it, right? Didn't hear anything for a while, and I started to get worried. But then I got a nibble from a TV station in Montana. I immediately bought a bus ticket to Billings, and had my stuff sent after me."

Alvin shakes his head. "Originally, I was supposed to host afternoons Monday through Friday, just like I did in Boise. But at the last minute, they changed their minds. I ended up just doing their Saturday and Sunday morning blocks, so the pay was less than half what it had been in Boise. As if that weren't enough, they also got really paranoid about possibly violating a copyright by having Alvin Chipmunk host their show. I reminded them that I had hosted as Chester Chipmunk for years with no problems, but they were really freaked out about this for some reason. So they came up with this really stupid solution." Alvin pauses to rub his eyes. "They had me dress up in a clown suit. With a red nose and everything. And they had me drop my voice way down, like I was trying to be the Jolly Green Giant. 'Ho ho ho, good morning, kids.' Just so nobody would see this rodent clown on TV and say, 'Wait - isn't that Alvin Chipmunk?' Like anybody ever recognized me, ever.

"'Cartoon Carnival with Chippy the Chipmunk'. God, it was terrible. They were really big on stupid crap like pratfalls and pies-in-the-face. By the end of the first weekend, I was really starting to miss the quiet dignity of being Chester Chipmunk." Alvin grins. "And try finding a rock band that wants to hire you when they find out you're the damn clown taking a pie to the face before introducing Huckleberry Hound every Sunday morning." Once again, Alvin becomes grim. "Things were pretty tough for a while. I was making just enough to pay rent on a small room in a boarding house. But finally, I got a bit of a break.

"I found a band called the Flaming Zeros that needed a guitarist right away. They had to play a wedding reception in two days. I practiced my tail off to learn their entire repertoire, played the wedding, and was given a permanent slot in the group. They were a cover band, and mainly played weddings and events like that. Kind of boring, slow pop songs most of the set. And the group kept me in back next to the drummer - didn't want to freak out the wedding party by having a rodent too close. But they played a lot of gigs, and the pay was a lifesaver." Alvin takes a deep breath. "But then things really fell apart."

"In the fall of 1979, the Flaming Zeros played a wedding. It went fine, and I was feeling pretty good afterwards, so I had a couple drinks at the open bar. Afterwards, some woman was giving me that 'ugh, vermin at a wedding' look. At least, I think she did. Ordinarily, I'd ignore it, but I guess I had one drink too many. I said, 'what are you looking at, ya fat bitch?'. Ends up it was the bride's sister. Not surprisingly, I was kicked out of the Flaming Zeros right then and there.

"The very next morning, I was in my clown get-up doing Cartoon Carnival. Two hours into the show, they did the pie-in-the-face gag. And the stage hand sort of hit me wrong, pushing the edge of the pie plate right into my eye. And I yelled, 'Goddamnit! Watch it, asshole!' Live. On a children's program. As soon as the show finished, I was told that was it, and not to come back. That's both of my jobs lost in twenty-four hours."

Alvin sighs again. "So now I'm unemployed. No prospects. And then I get this...idea." He pauses and rubs his face with his paws. "God, this is way more embarrassing than even Chippy the Chipmunk. But I'm thinking, hey, I'm AL-VIN, of Alvin and the Chipmunks! That's something worth seeing, right? And the holiday season is about to start - perfect! So I put together a holiday pageant. A Chipmunk Christmas With The Real Alvin And The Chipmunks. The whole thing is literally just me lip-synchng to a bunch of our old records. Mainly just the Christmas ones. I added a little dialogue between the songs to try to make something like a story out of it, but...ugh, it was terrible. Absolute crap. I found this frustrated actor in town to play Dave. And there are no other rodents in Billings, so I just go solo. I get two young kids to yell a few lines from off stage, and that's supposed to be you and Simon. They never even appear on stage - it's just me and Dave. But my ego has me convinced that this is going to be huge. I mean, it's AL-VIN! Live on stage!

"I scraped up some money to rent a small theater for a week at the beginning of December. A hundred and fifty seats. I'm picturing standing-room-only crowds, the show being held over until mid-January, and all my money woes being over."

Alvin pauses a bit before continuing. "You want to know many tickets we sold for the first performance? Twelve. And most of them left before the show was done. The opening number was 'Christmas Don't Be Late', and the sound guy played it at the wrong speed - 33 instead of 45. It sounded like drunk humans singing. Not that it mattered. The show was doomed from the start. We didn't even bother trying to put it on again the next night. It obviously was dead on arrival.

"And my problems still weren't done. The guy who played Dave wanted to be paid for the full week of performances. I told him I didn't have any money left to pay him. He actually threatened me in the parking lot with a tire iron. I gave him what I had on me, which wasn't much, but it was literally the last money I had. He took it, then kicked me in the face. At least he didn't use the tire iron. I laid there in the snow for a couple minutes, then staggered home, grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey, and drank until I passed out.

"I spent the next few weeks trying to raise money. I sold everything I could. My furniture, stereo, record collection, everything but my guitar - couldn't bear to part with that. And it still wasn't enough to pay the rent I owed. Landlady gave me two weeks before she started the eviction process. I just lay on the floor of my place for an entire day, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what to do. And I finally made a move - I called you."

Alvin pauses, and looks down. "Here's the really sad part. My ego was still fighting me. I was trying to think of some story I could tell you. So you wouldn't know how bad things had really gotten, or so you wouldn't think it was all my doing. But then I heard your voice. And I remembered. You'd seen me play with the Benson brothers. You'd seen through my bullshit once before. And despite all that, you stuck with me. We were still brothers, y'know? Even though I hadn't talked to you in ten years, you sounded happy to hear my voice. So I thought, forget it - I can't bullshit Theodore. Not anymore."

Simon picks up the story from there. "You telephoned me after your lengthy conversation with Alvin. And at the risk of sounding unduly pessimistic, your recounting of Alvin's last eleven years was not unexpected. Given his temperament, and his techniques of dealing with adversity, it was perhaps inevitable that he would have some very difficult and painful life lessons to learn."

During that phone conversation, Simon and I discussed what to do. We could send Alvin money, sure, but what about next month, and the one after that? In the end, we both agreed that getting Alvin to New York, and helping him get a job, would be the best move. I then suggested I could revamp one of my HalFlat rooms in my apartment into a little room for him. Simon didn't answer for a while.

"You don't think that's a good idea?" I asked.

"It is the simplest, and easily the least expensive. But I feel it is fraught with potential problems."

"What do you mean?"

"A potential scenario. Six months from now. Alvin is still unemployed, laying on your couch, playing your records at high volume, with a kitchen full of dirty dishes."

I thought about that for a second. "I'd tell him to go out and get a job."

"Say he refuses. Or states that he is unable to find one. Would you have the fortitude to turn your brother out onto the streets of New York?"

I mulled that over. "...I don't know, Simon. Is that really what I have to do?"

"If circumstances dictate, then yes. But ideally, it will not come to that. Let us bring our brother to New York, and see if his life might still be salvaged. It will be imperative to implement some rather stringent rules for him to follow."

We sent Alvin a bus ticket to New York, along with some money for food and incidentals for the trip. We also wired some money to his landlady, so he could leave on somewhat decent terms with her. Then I ordered a bed, a small dresser and curtains, and revamped my reading room into a small bedroom. It wasn't ideal, but it would do for the time being.

About ten days later, I stood at the depot waiting for his bus to arrive. When Alvin began coming down the steps, struggling with his guitar and suitcase, I ran up.

"Brother!" I yelled.

He looked over at me, and grinned. "Brother!" We hugged, which was a bit unusual for us, but hey - it had been eleven years. Then he looked me over. "Wow, brother, you look good."

I looked Alvin over, and realized I couldn't exactly say the same. He looked thin, and his eyes were a little sunken. And most of all, the over-confidence that had always surrounded him was gone. Now, his shoulders were kind of slumped, and he looked defeated. But that didn't mean I wasn't happy to see him. "Damn, it's good to see you again. C'mon, let's get your stuff in the truck."

Alvin didn't say much on the trip back to my place. He mainly just took in the sights and bit his foreclaw a bit. We got him set up in his new bedroom, then I gave him a few coins so he could take the subway over to Simon's place. I had to finish installing a project, but I promised I'd join them when I was done.

"That worked out, because Simon wanted me over there before you," says Alvin. "He wanted to talk to me alone. It wasn't a talk so much as a lecture. But let's face it - I had definitely earned a lecture.

"He wasn't angry, but he was...firm. He laid down some rules, and they were strict. I was to get a job as soon as possible. I was to turn my paychecks over to you two, and you would budget my money for me. I was to give you wide berth at your place, keep everything clean - 'immaculate' was actually what he said - and help out wherever I could. And if either of you felt I wasn't abiding by these rules, you would kick me out." Alvin takes a deep breath. "Hearing all that was...well, it was a lot of things. Humbling. Humiliating. But I agreed to them. What choice did I have, really? I had hit bottom, and now I had to try to start crawling my way back up."

I got to Simon's place around seven. Simon had put together a really simple meal of a fresh loaf of bread from the bakery down the street, and half a bottle of Chianti. We talked about pleasant stuff at first - the old days, the Little Rocks, and all the music that had come out over the past eleven years or so. But soon the bread was gone, and we had poured out the last of the wine. Collectively, we moved to the living room, and Simon smiled at our brother.

"So, brother, perhaps we should discuss our next musical endeavor."

"Yeah!" said Alvin, suddenly very excited. "You know, the Chipmunks name is pretty much ours now, so we can do what we want with it! So I've got this idea - 'Disco Alvin'! What do you think?"

Both Simon and I stared at Alvin like he'd lost his mind. Finally, Simon spoke up. "Brother, the Chipmunks has essentially been buried. I see no need to exhume it."

"And disco is kinda dying, don't you think?" I added.

"And you are presumably unaware that your brothers are already involved in another musical project."

Alvin went from excited back to glum. "Well, so much for me, then."

"Actually, you'd be perfect for it!" I said. "It's just the two of us - Simon on bass, and me on drums. And we have different musicians join us on stage, each for a short set."

"And we have left a slot open for you, if you care to fill it," Simon added.

Alvin perked up at that. "Really? Wow. OK. Uh, what would we be playing?"

"Anything we want," I said. "Old Little Rocks songs, or something else."

"It might behoove us to prepare something a bit more current," pointed out Simon. "All of the Little Rocks material is now fifteen years out of date."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," I admitted.

Simon pointed at Alvin. "But no disco."

"Oh, come on, Simon," Alvin groused. "There's nothing wrong with disco."

"It is nothing but mindless drivel," complained Simon. "And furthermore, it is ill-suited for our three-piece line-up. There are some excellent Emerson Lake and Palmer compositions that I feel we could perform..."

"Ugh," said Alvin, making a face. "You're into that stuff?"

"There is nothing wrong with adding some intelligence to rock and roll," Simon huffed. "Although I can comprehend why you might object."

I hated seeing my brothers getting into an argument so soon after getting us three back together, so I spoke up. "Brothers! Come on! It's not like our only options are prog rock and disco." I stood up and idly began flipping through Simon's record collection. "There are plenty of other songs to choose from..." Suddenly, I stopped. Sitting between a John Coltrane record and ELP's Tarkus was a nearly brand-new LP. I slid it out, and held it up for them both to see.

Simon looked embarrassed. "What?" he said defensively. "It has that insidious 'Sharona' song on it, and I couldn't get it out of my head..."

I held up a finger, and he stopped. I slid the Get the Knack album out of its sleeve, and put it on the turntable. We listened to the first minute or so of the first song "Let Me Out", and then I pointed at the turntable. "How about this? Can we do this?"

Simon shrugged. Alvin tried miming the guitar part, then said "I think so. I'll need to practice, though."

"We've got until Thursday," I said, smiling.

"Then let's see what's worth learning here." Alvin grinned back and rubbed his paws together.

The Chipmunks were officially back together.


	30. Is It Just A Matter Of Time

On the way home from Simon's, I decided to take Alvin to The Dirty Rat for a drink. We took our places at the bar, and as I was explaining the drink selection to him, the bartender Gretchen greeted me with her typically stunning smile.

"Nice to see ya, TD. Who's your friend?"

"My brother, actually..." But before I could complete the introduction, Alvin interrupted me.

"Roger," he said suddenly. He held out his paw, and Gretchen shook it. "Good to meet ya."

"I had done a lot of thinking on the bus trip out," Alvin says. "And even more during Simon's talk with me earlier in the day. One big difference between me and you two was how we dealt with the whole Chipmunks thing. I had held it up as a source of pride, bragging to people that I had sung lead on those records. But you two had...well, buried it, really. You both had changed your names in order to break away from it. And which of us was doing better?" Alvin smiled and shrugged. "I don't want it to sound like I thought that I could just change my name, and that would magically clear everything up. I wasn't all that naive. But it seemed like a good first step. To try and face the world as an unknown for once, and maybe leave some of that baggage behind. So, from that point on, to anybody new that I'd meet, I was Roger."

The next morning, Alvin and I ran into Rusty when he was on his way to work. I introduced Alvin (as Roger) to him, and then asked about any job opportunities there might be at the terminal. Rusty thought for a minute, and then told us that although there was nothing open right now, there probably would be something opening up in a week or two. "One of the foremen is moving south. Georgia, I think he said. Anyway, when a foreman leaves, usually everybody moves a step up, and we add somebody to the bottom." He nodded his head at Alvin. "You'd be on the line, of course."

"The line?" asked Alvin. "What's that?"

As usual, Rusty thought that over before answering. "You know the platforms in your apartment?"

"Sure."

"Like that. But three high." He indicated three levels with his paws. "Sixty-five feet long. Three rodents on each level. Both sides of the tracks. Pull in a subway car. Dump the cleaning fluid down. All the rodents take brushes and scrub down twenty-two feet on their level. Once everybody's done, move it along to get rinsed, bring in the next car." Rusty shrugged. "Not too taxing, not too fun. That's where you start, though."

Alvin looked over at me, his eyebrow arched. But I remembered What Simon had told me, so I said, "OK, Rusty. Let us know when the slot opens up. If Roger doesn't have another job by then, he'll take it."

Rusty nodded. "Good, good. I'll have Melvin keep me informed. Have a good day, neighbors." He hurried off, and Alvin turned to look at me with a pained expression.

"Washing subway cars? Really?"

I shrugged. "Hey, it's a job. And consider it a fire under your tail. If you don't want to work there, you just have to find a job before that position opens up."

Alvin did spend some time over the next week looking for a job, but he also spent a good chunk of time teaching himself the Knack songs we had chosen - "My Sharona", "Good Girls Don't", "Let Me Out", and "Frustrated". "The songs were pretty involved," Alvin says. "I had to cover two guitar lines, and they weren't as easy as they originally sounded. And the guitar solo on 'My Sharona' is a bear." Over the next few days, as I worked in the next room, I heard Alvin playing the record over and over, trying to get his parts down. "This was my first time playing with you guys in years," he adds. "I didn't want to half-ass it."

It wasn't until Thursday morning that I sat down to learn my parts, and realized that the drum parts in those songs were pretty involved, too. Luckily, Alvin had the songs down pat by then, and helped coach me until I could get thr]ough them. Having heard them so many times from the next room probably helped.

Alvin remembers how the set began that Thursday. "I sat in the crowd, off to the side. You two came out and did your first little song, then you brought Bert out to play sax and jam along with you. And I tried to sit there and enjoy it, but I just couldn't. I was really nervous. And that was unexpected. I had never been nervous before a gig. Looking back on it, I think it was a sign that AL-VIN was no longer in full control. In the old days, AL-VIN had always been telling me how awesome I was, so why would I get nervous? But now, I was just a small little chipmunk trying to sing and play guitar in front of all these people. I had to go backstage, and remind myself that I could do this."

After Bert finished and left the stage, it was Alvin's turn. Simon played a quiet bass pattern as I pulled my microphone in and gave a lengthy introduction.

"Thank you, everybody. He's Thomas, I'm TD, and this is Cemented. Some of you might know this, some of you might not, but many years ago, we two put out some records together. Back then, though, he was Simon and I was Theodore. (laughter and some applause) And our main role on those records was supporting our rascal brother Alvin. (more laughter) Those records did have some element of truth to them. I mean, Simon is smart, and I am kind of fat. (more laughter) But The Chipmunks records didn't really convey what we three were all about, or what we were really capable of. We used to perform in clubs, and on college campuses, but eventually we broke up and went our separate ways. We three haven't performed together on stage for almost a decade and a half. That is, until tonight. (applause) Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to welcome to the stage...my brother Roger, formerly known as AL-VIN!"

To great applause, Alvin walked out, wearing his white-star t-shirt and jeans. He waved to the crowd and slung his guitar over his head as Simon changed the bassline. I joined in, playing a quiet cymbal-tapping tempo. Alvin approached the microphone, but then stopped and looked back at us. Suddenly, he grabbed the mic and stand, and dragged them up the stairs onto the riser between Simon and me. He then looked back out at the crowd and said, "I want to be up here with my brothers." That got a nice round of applause.

"Yeah, it was kind of showy," says Alvin. "But it was honest. I did want to be next to you two."

When the applause died down, Alvin started playing a slow cowpoke melody, then began singing. "I wish I had a horse, a bright and shiny horse..."

It was Simon's idea to start our set with a Chipmunks song, but Alvin was the one who suggested "Horse". "It was a chance to play that one the way we originally sang it. Plus, there was a great contrast between that and the rock and roll that followed."

Simon and I joined in on harmony, and we sang together up until the end of the first chorus. "...a horse that I could call my own."

And as that note faded away, I launched into the "Walk Don't Run" drum intro. And the small crowd erupted in cheers. Alvin and Simon launched into their parts, and we rode that groove hard. I took my short drum solo in the middle section, and glanced over at Alvin. And I saw an expression on his face that I don't ever recall seeing on his face before.

Alvin smiles and says, "It was joy. At least, that's the word I would use to describe it. Just over a month before that, I was on stage, doing something I hated - lip-synching to my old records. And I had been dying up there. I kind of felt like everything was over at that point. But then, just a few weeks later, I was on stage doing something I loved - playing guitar on one of my favorite songs. And the audience was loving it. There was this feeling of...salvation, almost. I was utterly at the end of my rope in Montana, but now it seemed like everything was going to be OK. So I was just really in the moment."

We made our way through a few of our favorite old songs - "Telstar", "Can't Buy Me Love", "Walk Right In", "Wipeout". Then I got on the mic and announced, "We've been learning a few songs that are a bit more current, if you'd like to hear them." That got the expected polite round of applause, so I said, "That's what we figured. This song is by The Knack - it's called 'Let Me Out'." We plowed our way through that one and "Frustrated", and the crowd was rather appreciative.

As the applause died down, Alvin reached into his guitar case, grabbed something and held it up so the crowd could see. "You've heard about it, you bought the record about it, and now here it is. Live on stage, it's Alvin's harmonica!" Only a few people laughed, and Alvin looked pained. He grumbled, "I waited twenty years to make that joke, and now nobody gets it." That brought a bit more laughter from the crowd, and Alvin cracked a smile as he finished setting up his harmonica rack. He then told the audience, "A few days ago, I played this thing for the first time in fifteen years. I'll try not to screw it up too badly."

There was more laughter, and a woman in the audience piped up. "Such language, Alvin!"

Alvin looked over at her and shot her an evil grin. "Lady, if you can't handle Alvin saying 'screw it up', you'd better not listen too closely to this next number." He then launched into the harmonica intro of "Good Girls Don't", and Simon and I fell in behind him. The crowd responded much better to this number, possibly because it had been a pretty big hit only a few months previous. Or maybe it was because every time Alvin hit a rather salacious line in the song, he would stare pointedly at the woman in the audience who had spoken up. "Wishing you could get inside her pants", "you heard she's pretty fast", and most especially "until she's sitting on your face". At the last "good girls don't, but I do" he wagged his eyebrows at her suggestively. And the crowd went nuts for it.

"Alvin had not lost his way with an audience - that was abundantly clear," says Simon with a smile. "The crowd reaction had been pleasant but polite at the outset, but during the set of Knack covers, the audience was clearly in his paw."

After "Good Girls Don't" ended, I told the crowd, "OK, three songs by The Knack is probably enough." Then I paused for a second, and said, "What the hell - let's make it four," and started the well-known drum opening to "My Sharona".

Alvin admits, "I've sung that song plenty of times, but I've never nailed it...and never will. The original vocal has this sort of growly horny undercurrent that a chipmunk just can't pull off." Perhaps to compensate for that, Alvin really cut loose during that number. He threw his head back and howled the "my my my woo" parts. He ran down the steps onto the stage proper during the extended guitar solo. He worked both sides of the stage, and even went down on one knee during one part. We hit the false ending, and Alvin just stood there with a huge grin on his face, soaking in the applause. Then he slowly walked back up the steps to his microphone, struck a pose, and yelled "One! Two! Three!" And I slammed an upbeat that led us back into the short coda of the song. We hit the final "my Sharonaaaaa", and I nearly collapsed. I felt exhilarated...and exhausted.

I stood up and waved to the crowd, then headed down the stairs off the riser. I saw Simon with his paw on Alvin's shoulder, and he quickly asked me, "Can you go work the crowd?" I nodded, and Simon hustled Alvin backstage. I began chatting to some folks in the crowd - "thanks for coming!" "yeah, it's great playing with him again", "oh, definitely, we'll be doing this again soon". But I wondered what was going on with my brothers.

Ends up Simon had taken Alvin to a small office in the back. Alvin says, "We had...well, ten years before that night, I would've called it a 'fight'. At the time, I thought of it more like an 'argument'. And now, I'm thinking it was just a discussion." What about? "The gig. Its effect on me. Simon was worried that it had swelled my head back up, that I was going to start slipping back into my old habits. I don't remember exactly what he said, but basically, he was trying to keep me grounded.

"I do remember one thing he said to me that night. 'Confidence not arrogance.' I thought about that quite a bit the next few days. Simon's damn good on the bass and keyboards, but you'd never hear him say so. He just gets up on stage and kicks tail, you know? And you're a great drummer, but I never heard you bragging about it. You just start playing 'Topsy' and blow everybody away. So maybe I needed to do more of that. Less blow more show. I decided that that was something I had to work on."

As we drove home that night, we discussed plans for our next performance. We already had our slots filled for next week's Cemented gig, but we didn't have anything lined up the following week. We mulled over the idea of having Alvin be our only guest, and doing a full Chipmunks (or Little Rocks) show. But what should we perform? Not just our old material - we liked doing those Knack songs, and they went over especially well. Should we learn some new material over the next two weeks? And if so, what?

Alvin was listening to the Knack LP when he came up with an idea. "Selecting which Knack songs to do for our first show was tough, because that album is pretty much all killer no filler. So I thought, 'why don't we do the whole album? From start to finish?' That doesn't sound like much of an idea these days, because that album has sort of been forgotten by most people. But it had been a huge hit just a few months before - number one for over a month. So a lot of people owned it and knew it, which meant we could probably get a good crowd from that aspect alone."

We decided we all liked the idea enough to give it a try, so we arranged to meet on Sunday evening to rehearse. Alvin and I spent most of Friday and Saturday night learning the parts to the songs we hadn't tried yet, and we powered through rehearsal the next night.

"We unexpectedly mastered the unfamiliar songs in short order," recalls Simon. "We three had become a rather formidable power-pop ensemble."

That was a good thing, too, because Rusty knocked on my door bright and early Monday morning. He told us that the line position had opened up, and Alvin could start Friday afternoon.

Alvin sighs. "I really didn't want to take that job. It sounded like a complete drag. So I was doing my damnedest to find something else. For the next four days, I was going all over the city, reaching up to counters, asking for managers, filling out applications. And of course, I didn't find anything. The economy was in rough shape around then. Plus, seriously - would anyone be that interested in hiring a rodent in his late thirties whose only other job was being a cartoon-show host on TV?"


	31. I Don't Know Why I Waited So Long

That Friday, I was busy with an on-location HalFlat project, but I deliberately left the site a bit early. I got back home around the time Alvin should be leaving for work, and my heart sank when I heard him still up in his room, messing around on his guitar. I steeled myself for a minute at the bottom of the ladder, then climbed up and shoved my head through the heavy black curtains.

"Your training starts in half an hour. You better get ready to go."

Alvin made a face. "Ugh. I am not washing subway cars."

I set my jaw, then said what I had to. "Then pack your stuff - you're gonna have to find another place to live." I withdrew my head, climbed back down the ladder, and walked into the kitchen to start dinner. A few seconds later, before I could even open the fridge, Alvin had joined me there.

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not."

"Brother, I looked for a job all week! I couldn't find anything!"

"You did find something. Actually, something found you. And now you're not taking it. You know the rules that Simon and I set up - you get a job, or you get out."

Alvin crossed his arms and stared at me. "You're seriously going to kick me out." It was more of a dare than a question.

I stared back, which took pretty much all of my willpower. Finally, I turned, opened the fridge, pulled out a small paper bag, and held it out to him. "Here. I made you dinner. Now get going, or you'll be late."

Alvin stared at me for a bit more, then stared down at the bag. Finally, he snatched it from my paw. He turned without a word and stomped out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Once he was gone, I made my way to the living room couch, sat down, and shuddered.

Alvin admits, "I knew a showdown was going to happen, but I thought it was a long way away. Hell, I strung that groupie along for over two years. But you? I didn't even last two weeks." Alvin shakes his head. "I'd like to think I was being honest. That I really did plan on getting a job, and I just wanted to buy some more time from you so I could find something better. I figured I could just bluff my way past my little brother. But you obviously weren't so little anymore. You may not have been taking karate anymore, but you still could've kicked my tail out of your place if it came down to it." He sighs. "And it didn't come down to that. You just dug in your heels, and I caved.

"I trudged along to the subway terminal, thinking...well, you can probably guess what I was thinking. But then I looked down at the dinner you gave me. And some tiny part of my brain said 'well, that was nice of him'. Looking at that plain paper sack reminded me of all of the stuff you'd done for me recently. The bus ticket out to New York, getting a room ready for me, putting me back on stage playing rock and roll. And what had I done? Complained, mostly. I was just a spoiled little brat in his mid-thirties who didn't want to go get a job. Some brother I am. I went from really pissed to really depressed in like ten seconds. I showed up at the terminal feeling like garbage. But that was probably a necessary step to help push AL-VIN further down.

"I went through with the training, had my first day on the job, and came back home at half past one in the morning, exhausted. And you were sitting up on the couch, waiting for me. You just gave me a hug, said 'thank you', and then went to bed." Alvin smiles. "And...that was that. It was like all was forgiven."

And how was working at the terminal? Alvin shrugs. "It was the worst job I ever had, no question. But then again, I didn't have all that many jobs in my life. Even dressing like a clown and taking a pie to the face is easy work compared to putting on plastic gloves and coveralls, and going to work on the line. But all in all, it wasn't terrible. At least they had the radio blaring in the terminal. After a while, I just started losing myself in the music while I worked. But even now, every time I hear Michael Jackson's 'Rock With You', I can smell that gross industrial cleaner they used.

"I was on the lower level with all the new folks. Upper level had to do the tops of the cars, middle level got the windows. We just got the bottom sides of the cars. I'd finish scrubbing my section down, then switch a little light from red to green. All green lights meant everybody on that side was done and clear of the car, so they could move it along. My first few days, I was really slow - always the last guy switching to green. I eventually got a little better at it, probably by the end of the second week. But I was coming home stiff and exhausted every day. Luckily, I was only working on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays - I got to rest up to play guitar on Thursdays."

Simon had his friend Amy stop by our first Knack rehearsal to take some photos. For the last few poses, we tried copying the facial expressions from the Get The Knack album cover. (I learned much later that the guys in The Knack were grabbing their junk in that photo. We didn't do that part.) I had sort of forgotten about the photo shoot when we got to Riley's for the next gig, and I was pleasantly surprised when I saw some posters with our faces on them. "GET THE 'MUNK" they said. "The Chipmunks perform the Get The Knack album!" But I was floored when I saw, near the bottom of each poster, a small yellow sign that read "SOLD OUT".

Sold out! We sold out Riley's!

We decided to "open for ourselves" for this gig. We performed as The Little Rocks, making our way through our favorite early-60s songs, while wearing our old varsity jackets. Simon recalls wryly, "You had kept yourself in shape with your carpentry, whereas Alvin was at the conclusion of some literal lean years. As a result, your jackets still fit you two well. Mine, on the other hand, was a bit snug. I had not gained all that much weight over the past decade and a half, but I was quite gaunt as a youth. The few pounds I had gained were enough to make the jacket a bit too small for my frame. I managed to make do, however."

After closing the first set with "Wipe Out", we left the stage, changed into our black suits with skinny black ties, came back out, and started pounding our way through the Knack album.

"We had the whole thing down pretty well," Alvin says. "We weren't as tight as we could have been on 'Monkey and Me' - it's got a bit of a weird stuttering rhythm to it. But we were pretty damn good from start to finish."

Simon points out, "One minor drawback was that the two hits on the album were at the close of the first side and the beginning of the second. This meant that the last five songs we performed were not as familiar to the audience. Still, most people remained until the very end."

Alvin adds, "They called for an encore, and we didn't have anything planned. Simon and I ended up swapping instruments, and we did 'Salt Peanuts'. It didn't fit in with the Knack stuff at all, but we were pretty much out of uptempo numbers."

Given the turnout and response, the owner of Riley's naturally asked us to repeat the gig the following Thursday. We chatted about it, and decided to give it a go. "It did mean contacting the three musicians we had scheduled for Cemented on that night," says Simon, "and politely asking if they would mind postponing a week. Thankfully, all three were most gracious about it."

We did decide that a few changes needed to be made. "Our Little Rocks set was longer than the Chipmunks set, which didn't make much sense," Alvin says. "So we tightened the Little Rocks set down to forty minutes. Then we had to find some uptempo pop-rock songs we could play after the Knack stuff."

I suggested two songs that Alvin and Simon agreed to right away: Cheap Trick's "I Want You to Want Me"' and "I Wanna Be With You" by the Raspberries. And early the next morning, I camped out at the big record store not far from my place and started digging through their 45s. After listening for a couple hours, I managed to find two more good ones - "She's in Love With You" by Suzi Quatro, and Bram Tchaikovsky's "Girl of My Dreams". Also, a woman who worked with Simon who had sat through our first Knack show suggested "Girls Talk" by Dave Edmunds. Simon borrowed the 45 from her, and that quickly became our fifth addition to the set. "All five songs had a similar sort of feel," adds Alvin. "I don't know if 'power pop' was really a term back then. If it was, I hadn't heard it. But that was sort of our sound."

Our second "Get The 'Munk" show hadn't sold out by the time we arrived, but I seem to recall that it did sell out at some point over the course of the night. "The crowd may not have been larger for the second show," Simon says, "but it was assuredly louder and more animated. Perhaps it was because some of them had seen the previous show and knew what to expect, or perhaps our tweaks to the set encouraged them to be more boisterous."

Despite doing gangbusters two weeks in a row, Simon and I decided to go back to doing a Cemented gig the following Thursday. Instead of a power pop extravaganza, we gave the audience a mix of jazz and rock with Kenny, a violinist, and jazz trumpeter. Alvin says, "Yeah, I got it, sorta. You didn't want to burn people out on the Chipmunks-do-The-Knack idea, and there were Cemented fans who hadn't seen a gig in awhile. But I wasn't happy. For the first time since the Little Rocks days, I was really jazzed to be playing live, and now I didn't have a gig again for the next two weeks."

The next Monday morning, I was deep into a HalFlat project in my work room. I had gotten to a spot where I needed a tool, but I realized I had left my tool chest in the truck. I hated breaking my rhythm, but I really couldn't move ahead without it. Resigned, I started to head back outside to retrieve it, but I stopped in the living room. Alvin was just coming back from the kitchen, swigging a Coke.

"Could you help me out?" Alvin finished sipping his drink, then shrugged. "Can you go to my truck, and bring back the yellow tool chest in the front seat? Keys are there on the hook." Again, Alvin shrugged, and headed out. I went back to the work room, and immersed myself back into my project. When Alvin brought the tool chest up, I had him rummage around for the tool that I needed, then had him read me a measurement I had written down in my notebook. He did both of those things, and after I thanked him, he started flipping though my notebook.

"You've done a lot of these things."

I made something between a grin and a grimace. "That's my sixth book. Or seventh. I forget."

"Wow." He watched me saw a piece of wood, then asked "You need any more help?"

I paused and looked over at him. "Um...sure. Could you mark off 24 inches on these pieces?"

"Sure." He stepped over and grabbed the pencil.

"Make triple sure you have it right," I warned. "I don't have any wood to spare right now."

For the rest of the day, Alvin helped me out. He measured pieces, held things in place, or sanded the edges smooth. Other times, he just sat and chatted with me to help pass the time. He even went out and picked up our lunch, since he had already learned what my favorite sandwich at the deli was. And later that afternoon, after he had helped me load the parts and my tools into my truck, I convinced him to come along to help install the shelving. As we made our way there, I said, "Now I guess I'm gonna need to talk to Simon."

"What for?"

"To revamp the HalFlat finances. Gotta figure out how best to pay you as my assistant."

Alvin says now, "I swear - when I was helping you out at the beginning, I never once thought about you hiring me. And then when you actually offered me the job, I wasn't sure I wanted it. Not because I hated the work or anything. But...I don't know. It just felt weird, you know? Working for that kid I used to boss around. But I decided to give it a try, and I'm glad I did."

Simon agreed that all the "investment money" I had been sending to him could go towards paying Alvin, effective immediately. "I had over ten years worth of returns on that investment," Simon states. "Alvin at least was working for it, and I wanted to encourage his efforts as much as possible."

With Alvin on board as my assistant, I started getting through my projects faster. My calendar used to be perpetually full, but it finally started easing up. I could go see a show, or take an evening at the Dirty Rat with Alvin, without feeling guilty about it.

"I never did any of the heavy stuff," admits Alvin. "The planning, the heavy sawing, any of that. Maybe I would've started to if I'd been with you longer. But it was fun working with you. At least, I enjoyed working with you a lot more than I did going to the terminal at the end of every week."


	32. I Was Only Having Fun

"I was rehearsing for the March gig when I started having this problem with my guitar," Alvin recalls. "A hollow buzzing sound kept coming in and out. Annoying as hell. I wasn't sure if it was the guitar or amp. You drove me over to Simon's so he could test them out, and he figured out it was the guitar. So he loaned me his blue guitar to rehearse with while he tried to fix it.

"I'd been playing that old black guitar for years, and between Simon and me, we managed to keep a pretty good sound coming from it. And, you know, you get used to things. I was fine with how it felt and how it played. But then I started playing Simon's guitar. Oh, man, it was like night and day. It sounded so much better than mine, even before that buzzing kicked in. It felt better in my paws, too."

"I dismantled Alvin's guitar in order to isolate the problem," says Simon. "And while repairing it, I reflected on its condition. Alvin had been playing it for many years, and had worn it out considerably. I contemplated that perhaps it would be more prudent to simply replace it. When you mentioned how much Alvin was enjoying using my guitar, it solidified my decision that Alvin would be receiving his birthday present a bit early that year."

Simon and I pooled our money and ordered a new half-sized electric guitar for him. And, while placing the order, Simon took the plunge and ordered something for himself - a Korg MS-20 synthesizer. "I had attempted to keep my electric organ in working order as the years went on, and had replaced it completely at one point. But I felt it was most likely time to commit to owning an actual synthesizer. The MS-20 was not the most superior one on the market at the time, but it was both portable and powerful. The keyboard was also somewhat smaller than normal, so I was able to acclimatize to playing it fairly quickly."

The guitar was a bit slow to ship out to us, so Simon told Alvin that he needed some parts to repair the old one, so it wouldn't be ready for a bit. The guitar finally arrived on Thursday, the day of our next gig. When we went to pick up Simon, he snuck it into the back of my truck without Alvin noticing.

Once we were at Riley's and started setting up, Simon told Alvin, "Oh, incidentally, brother, I have your guitar ready now." He handed him the guitar case.

Alvin looked ambivalent. "Thanks, but do you mind if I use yours tonight? I've gotten kind of used to it."

"Of course. But would you mind giving yours a quick trial? I wish to ascertain that everything is in working order."

"Sure." Alvin opened up his old guitar case, then stopped short. Laying inside was a brand new, bright-red-and-white guitar. Alvin stared at it for a second, then looked up at us, confused.

"It's really tough to explain what I was feeling right then," admits Alvin. "It was a whole range of emotions. At first, just...disbelief, really. Then there was gratitude, obviously, although I was so gobsmacked, I probably forgot to say thank you. But there was more to it than that. You both had done a lot for me over the previous few months. You'd given me a place to live, taken charge of my screwed-up budget, and helped me get a real job. And up until that point, I couldn't help but feel that maybe you were just doing all this stuff because you felt like you had to." Even having him play with us at Riley's? "Even that. I would tell myself, well, they know all these jazz musicians and everything that're much better than me. Maybe they're having me play with them just because they feel sorry for me." Despite all the sold-out shows and fun we seemed to be having? Alvin shrugs embarrassedly. "I didn't say it made sense. My ego was still kind of beat up. I wasn't used to these feelings of insecurity. I spent a lot of nights staring at the ceiling feeling kind of down on myself.

"But you guys getting me a new guitar - a red one, even! That was like...proof, if that makes any sense. Proof that you guys...well, you thought enough of me to do something like that. You two actually still liked that flat-broke screw-up brother of yours." Alvin pauses, and makes a vague motion with his paw. "I didn't study psychology or anything, so I'm not sure if this is right. But it felt like it was really the first step at rebuilding my ego. Correctly this time. Where I was feeling worthwhile not because I'm AL-VIN but because I AM worthwhile." Alvin grins lopsidedly. "That's kind of a lot of weight for a half-sized guitar to carry."

Simon adds, "Alvin was appreciative of the gift, which was welcome. But receiving the gift also appeared to compel him to excel on stage. The show we performed that evening without a doubt ranks among his best."

We had added another new song into the set, and debuted it that night - Billy Joel's "You May Be Right". That one was Alvin's idea. "I heard it on the radio, and I rushed out to buy it. No, wait - I had to ask you to buy the record for me, since you were still in charge of my money. Same thing, really, I guess. It was the music that grabbed me at first - it's a good driving pop-rock number. It wasn't until I played the record at home that I really listened to the lyrics. And when I did, my first thought was to skip it. I mean, the guy singing is kind of a jerk. But the more I listened, the more I realized how much like AL-VIN this guy sounded. Basically being an asshole, and thinking everybody still thinks he was such a cool guy. Sometime between playing it the first and second time, I went from thinking 'um, maybe not' to 'oh, we HAVE to do this one'."

We worked out an arrangement in rehearsal, with Alvin taking the sax solo on guitar. "That was pretty easy - it was only eight measures long. But we also had to work out an ending, since the record faded out. We decided to turn it into a bit of a jam, with you and Simon repeating the 'you may be wrong but you may be right' vocals in the background every so often." We placed the song about halfway through the post-Knack part of the set that night, which was the only time it ended up there. "The crowd went crazy for that one. I don't know if we just played it well from the beginning, or if they picked up on the whole AL-VIN-ishness of it. But they loved it. We hit the part where I thought we'd end the song, but the crowd was still totally into it, so we kept right on going. When we finally finished, the crowd went nuts, and I think all three of us knew we had found our new closing number."

That gig also spelled the end of our full Get-The-Knack nights. "The novelty had worn off," Simon explains. "The complete-album performance was originally the main impetus for people to come watch us perform, but by this point, the crowd was just as enthusiastic for the other songs." We decided to keep "Let Me Out" as our opener, and have "Frustrated", "Good Girls Don't" and "My Sharona" spread out within the set. This of course meant we were ditching eight songs from the set. So we added a few Little Rocks numbers back into the set, and also went out in search for newer material.

I suggested "How Do I Make You", the then-current hit by Linda Ronstadt. Most of her hits were kind of feather-light covers of well-known oldies, but "How Do I Make You" was a modern pop-rock record with a bit of a new wave feel. The main reason I chose it was because it kicked off with a killer drum roll, and finished with a cool drum freakout. Alvin, however, wasn't too keen on the song. "To be brutally honest, I didn't want to do it because it was a 'chick' singing it." Alvin grins a bit. "Sorry. But it was 1980, and I was holding onto my tiny bit of machismo as tightly as I could." So I offered to take the lead vocal on it, and we gave it a few tries in rehearsal. However, the powerful drum intro would wear me out, and I kept running out of breath while trying to sing the first line. "You tried it four or five times. But after each try, I realized more and more what a good song it was. So I said, OK, fine, I'll sing it. And I'm glad I did - that was a fun one to do."

The first gig in April was the one that really set things back in motion for us. After we had wrapped up our set with "You May Be Right" (with an even longer ending than we had done before), Alvin went out to "work the crowd" while Simon and I started clearing the stage.

"I chatted with a few people, the basic 'thanks for coming, glad you liked it' sort of thing. But then one guy sort of pushed his way up to the front. He handed me a business card, and said it was important that I call this guy the next morning. I glanced at the card. Excelsior Records, it said. I wasn't sure how to respond, so I just said 'OK thanks'. I hadn't ever heard of this label, so I didn't really think much of it. I gave the card to Simon, and he said he'd take care of it. Little did I know what it would lead to."

Simon explains, "I was unaware of it at the time, but in another city, a radio disc jockey had inadvertently played the Blondie track 'Call Me' at the wrong speed, making singer Deborah Harry's voice extremely high. The disc jockey had jokingly stated that it had been a performance by the Chipmunks, and listeners began calling in to request this supposed new Chipmunks song. This in turn led some people to ruminate that perhaps the time was ripe for a Chipmunks reunion, without knowing that the we had in fact already reunited. Excelsior Records was extremely fortunate, as they happened to know somebody who was aware of where we were performing."

Excelsior Records was a subsidiary of Chiswick, a UK-based label, which was mainly used for reissuing old material. "Their plan was simply to get us in the studio immediately to record a rendition of 'Call Me', for single release," Simon says. "And while I was not against the idea of the Chipmunks performing that specific song, their plan appeared to be exceptionally short-sighted. The ongoing success of our live shows, and the unexpected response to the 'Call Me' mishap, suggested that the public at large might be prepared for a full-fledged Chipmunks revival. I believed that this was an opportunity to show what we were truly capable of producing, and so I began negotiations towards the Chipmunks recording a full-length album."

Before Simon got too far with those, however, he placed a phone call. "I felt it imperative to keep Ross Bagdasarian Jr. informed of these developments. It was somewhat in jest that we had offered to split the Chipmunks franchise with him so many years previous, but I did feel obligated to abide by that agreement. Ross initially sounded skeptical about accepting a full share of whatever income the Chipmunks earned, but I eventually convinced him that we were more than happy to take him in as a partner. At the time, we both envisioned the deal resulting in a few extra dollars here and there, so we thought little of doing an agreement via the telephone."

As the negotiations dragged on, we met at my place to start working out song arrangements. We started with Blondie's "Call Me", since that was the one song that Excelsior made clear they really wanted us to record. Alvin says, "Simon had to help me with those French lyrics in the bridge. I just learned them phonetically - didn't even ask what they meant. It wasn't until our album came out that I really gave it a listen, and I sort of realized, oh, this is the theme from American Gigolo. It's basically sung from a gigolo's point of view. I guess it was a good thing I didn't think about that at the time. It probably would've weirded me out a bit."

Once the deal was signed, Excelsior rushed us into a studio. Some of the songs we recorded were straight from our live set, so we were set to go with those. But the label insisted that we record several other songs of their choosing. "There most likely were specific rationales for their requests that we record those specific numbers," says Simon, "but identifying those rationales would be sheer conjecture on my part. And much like our Beatles recordings for Liberty, we were not given ample time to familiarize ourselves with the requested songs, and our recordings of those songs definitely suffered as a result. Our take of 'Let's Go' is rather stilted, for instance, which is especially unfortunate as that recording opens the album."

"It's kind of strange," says Alvin, listening to it for the first time in years. "This album probably sounds more like our live shows than any other one we did. And I love it from that standpoint alone. But Jesus, there's a lot to hate about it, too."

For instance, there was a huge screw-up with one of the Knack songs. When we first got to the studio, we set up our instruments and recorded a scratch version of "My Sharona", mainly just to make sure the microphone levels were all properly placed. Once that was done, we got around to recording everything in earnest. But somehow, that scratch take of 'My Sharona" was the one that ended up on the album. "Pure carelessness on their part," Simon grouses. "That take is exceptionally lackluster. Alvin's singing is very unpolished, and your drumming sounds very flat. Anybody who had witnessed us perform 'Sharona' live would be disappointed by the version presented there."

One of the songs that we learned at the label's behest had recently been a hit by Queen - "Crazy Little Thing Called Love". Alvin recalls, "When we sat down to go through it the first time, I asked if we could slow the tempo down, so I could make sure I had all the lyrics right. So we're chugging our way through this song at about half-tempo...and I suddenly realized how cool it sounded that way. It was like one of those make-them-squeal numbers Elvis used to do. 'Love Me', 'I Want You I Need You I Love You', that sort of thing." We told the guys at Excelsior we wanted to record it at that tempo, and they did let us run a few takes like that. But they also asked us to 'try a take just like the Queen one". We hadn't really practiced it at that speed, but we gave it a go. It was clumsy and rather uninspired...and of course, that's the take they used. We kept our slower version in our live set, though.

Even our recording of "You May Be Right" had issues. I mentioned that, when we performed it live, we'd been replacing the sax solo with an Alvin guitar solo. While preparing to record it, we decided to switch that to a keyboard solo. "It was not feasible to utilize a keyboard solo in a live setting," explains Simon, "as the lack of bass during that section was somewhat jarring. However, we could accomplish it without much effort in the studio. I wrote a simple eight-measure solo, including a pitch bend leading back into the chorus, and recorded in three takes. The rough mix sounded promising, so our expectations were rather high for that particular song." But then somebody at Excelsior decided to replace Simon's keyboard solo with a newly-recorded sax solo. "The performance is solid," admits Simon. "But the label retained Alvin announcing 'Take it, Simon!' just before, implying that I was the saxophonist. I have always been displeased with this, as I have never once attempted to play the saxophone in my many years."

Simon invited his friend Margaret to do the photo shoot for the album cover. Alvin says, "She took us to the terminal where I was working, really early in the morning when everything was shut down. We did a bunch of poses on the platforms, and a bunch more in a subway car. Margaret had us pose while holding up paper masks of the old cartoon Chipmunks faces in front of our heads. She made a few black-and-white test prints of those for us to look over, and wow. They were creepy, but really cool. We picked one of those to be the back cover photo, with one of us sitting on the top of the subway car for the front. I thought they looked great." Excelsior, however, didn't agree. "After all that, Excelsior decided to use a cartoon drawing for the cover. And it's not even a good one. It looks like a little kid drew it."

And, as a final insult, there was the album title. I suggested the album could be called 'Survival', and the label seemed to like that idea. But eventually, without our input or approval, the label gave the album the title Chipmunk Punk. Even three decades later, this still gets Alvin riled up. "Punk?! There was nothing punk at all about that album! We were covering Linda Ronstadt, for fuck's sake. And of course, with the skinny ties and safety pins on the cover, it looks like we were somehow buying into that - like we actually thought we were being punk. But we never thought of ourselves as being a punk band, ever. We were a power-pop trio, damnit."

Despite all the issues we had with the album, it managed to do the impossible. It completely resurrected the Chipmunks brand. The album made the top forty, and was eventually certified gold, making it only the second Chipmunks album to achieve that status. Excelsior released "You May Be Right" as a single, and it almost became our first one to crack the Hot 100 in eighteen years. Sadly, it fell just short, stopping at #101. "I should've gone out and bought ten copies that week," says Alvin. "That probably would've been enough to push it up a slot or two."


	33. I Don't Care Too Much For Money

At some point while Chipmunk Punk was still floating around the album chart, Simon gave me a call. The first thing he did was to suggest that I sit down, which wasn't like him at all.

"Why? What is it?"

"We have been asked by another band to be their support on tour."

For the first time in years, my body started quivering, and my foot began tapping uncontrollably. Touring as part of a rock band had always been my biggest dream - a dream that looked like it was finally going to become a reality. "When? Where? With who?"

I could almost hear Simon smiling on the other end. "Remain calm, brother, and I will answer your queries. When? For two weeks in August. Where? Through New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio. With whom? With a band named D.A."

"...D.A.?" I tried to remember where I had heard that name before. "The band that does 'Ready 'n' Steady'?"

"You are familiar with them, then?" Simon sounded surprised.

"I think so." It had been a rather minor hit about a year previously. For some reason, I could remember the title, but the actual song wasn't coming to me. And I won't lie - I was sort of hoping it would be a band with a larger fanbase. "So, how will this work? Will they be opening for us?"

"No, brother. The Chipmunks will perform first each night."

"Really? Why?"

"Because we are being added to their tour, which has already been booked. In fact, we will be taking the place of another group that had to bow out. And the band is unsure what sort of crowd, if any, the Chipmunks might draw." Simon lowered his voice. "But it is still a tour, brother." He was right, of course, and I thanked him over and over for helping put this together.

The three of us immediately started planning. Alvin had to get time off from the terminal - "they weren't very happy about that" - and I had to try to arrange my HalFlat jobs so I'd be free for those two weeks. Simon was still on his summer break, but he still had to rearrange his research schedule.

The logistics weren't too difficult to work out. D.A. kindly offered to make room in their van for us, but we decided it'd be better if we took my truck. We fitted the back with a lockable canopy so we could store our instruments in the back, and in the first week of August, we all piled in and set out on our very first long trip together.

Our first gig was at a club in Rochester. We set up our riser and our instruments, then sat in the rather cramped green room with D.A., nervously biding our time while the crowd started filing in. Then, just before nine o'clock, we got up and accepted some "good lucks" from the guys in D.A. I high-fived Alvin and Simon, then we slowly marched out onto the stage. The crowd got quieter, but I could hear a lot of murmuring. We made our way up onto the riser, and took our places at our instruments. Then, Simon reached over and turned on the reel-to-reel tape machine that we had borrowed from Spencer.

The opening strains of "Christmas Don't Be Late" filled the club. The crowd laughed as the voice of David Seville asked us if we were ready to sing our song. Simon and I lip-synched our "OKs", but Alvin yelled his, then launched straight into the harmonica opening of "Good Girls Don't".

This introduction was Simon's idea. "I desired to inform the audience that yes, we were in fact The Chipmunks from decades past. But once that was accomplished, we could then reveal ourselves as a pop-rock band."

"I wasn't a big fan of the intro at first," admits Alvin. "Personal baggage. The last time I was on stage with 'The Chipmunk Song' playing was in Billings about half a year previous, and that didn't go so hot, did it?" Alvin grins. "This one worked out quite a bit better, though."

The set list was a condensed version of the sets we played in New York. "Good Girls Don't", "How Do I Make You", "Crazy Little Thing Called Love", "I Want You to Want Me", "My Sharona", "You May Be Right". And shoved right in the middle of the set was the first song we had written together in over fifteen years - "Survival".

"I had been contemplating that word since you first suggested it as a title for the album," says Simon. "I began free-associating some pop lyrics, and you and Alvin helped create the music to accompany them."

"It was an 'original'...lyrically, anyway," says Alvin. "Musically, we did an awful lot of borrowing. The basic form is a lot like 'Frustrated', and the guitar solo was just a crunchier version of the one I used to play in 'Spanish Omelets for Breakfast'. But Simon's lyrics were pretty good. 'Just trying to make it to tomorrow, that's all I'm doing today'. We should've recorded it. It might have ended up in a lousy 80s action film."

If there was no third band on the bill, we would get a longer set time, so we'd add in some of our older material. "I'd tell the crowd about the Little Rocks," explains Alvin, "then we'd do a couple of instrumentals - 'Wipe Out' was always the last. Then I'd talk about the Beatles album we did, and we'd do 'Can't Buy Me Love' and 'I Want to Hold Your Hand'. That would be enough to fill out the set."

The gigs were definitely different from our ones at Riley's. We had to prove ourselves to a new crowd every single night, to an audience who was presumably not there to see us. And it was a bit more of an uphill battle than I was expecting. After all, most humans saw us either as a children's group or a novelty act, or maybe both. Even Chipmunk Punk was viewed more like "isn't this funny? Chipmunks playing pop-rock?" So we had to go out there to make a case for us being a legitimate music group.

"Some nights we were just on," insists Alvin. "From the first harmonica notes on 'Good Girls Don't', the crowd was loud and supportive. In Cincinnati, we left the stage to some people chanting 'chip-munks, chip-munks'. But then there was Pittsburgh. That one was a bear."

Simon elaborates. "When the opening strains of 'Christmas Don't Be Late' would play at the start of our sets, this would routinely engender a reaction from the audience. Laughter or cheering, or, most commonly, a combination of the two. But when we performed in Pittsburgh, it was met with complete silence. It was clear that this audience would not be easily won over."

"When the audience doesn't react, you start second-guessing yourself," continues Alvin. "I started babbling a bit on the mic between songs, which didn't really help matters any. We just needed to keep serving up the rock. And they'd either get it or not."

Actually, one of the things Alvin said that night did help thaw the audience a bit. Alvin looked out at the crowd and said, "Our latest album is called Chipmunk Punk. And we'd like to apologize for that. It's not punk. At all." He paused a second, then added, "That'd be more like this." He began shredding his guitar and yelling, "London calling, at the top of the dial..."

"That Clash song was really the only punk song I knew," admits Alvin. "And I only knew it because it's the flip side to 'Train in Vain', which you owned. But a few people laughed, and a few cheered. So it was a small step towards winning them over."

We finished that set, to some rather modest applause. I began breaking down my drum set, feeling that we had failed somehow. But soon, D.A. was on stage giving it their all, and getting the same muted reaction from the crowd. And this was the band that these people had ostensibly paid to see. It was a bit bewildering to me. And I'll admit - I let this one gig color my perceptions far too much. (For a short time, I even decided that my least-favorite baseball team was now the Pirates instead of the Cubs. Very mature, Theodore.) But Simon finally set me straight. "Crowds are deceptively complex. The difference between a raucous audience and a subdued one is actually very slim. To some degree, everybody in that audience is attempting to fit in. If someone only hears polite applause, they will think, 'oh, we are being restrained tonight' and also only give polite applause. But if they hear loud cheering and yelling, they will feel free - if not quite obligated - to join in. There is a very good chance that, had we come back on tour a year later, the Pittsburgh crowd would have been raucous. And perhaps the one in Cincinnati would have been reserved."

Alvin has a high opinion of the tour overall. "Definitely. I think the applause increased as we made our way through the set, every single show. Even in Pittsburgh, the crowd went from barely responding at all to some healthy applause at the end."

Simon is a bit more reserved. "We did not have a truly disappointing gig throughout the tour, which is something in which I still take some pride. I believe that we convinced most of the attendees that we were an adequate, and perhaps even good, pop-rock band. But I am less certain that we truly gained many fans. Did any of them seek out our albums the next day? Had we returned to their town playing our own show, would they have come? I am less convinced of that." Simon shrugs and adds, "But then again, we were opening for a band with a somewhat different sound. Our job, such as it was, was to entertain their crowd for thirty or forty minutes. And that goal was certainly accomplished.."

"One thing that surprised me," adds Alvin. "Almost no rodents in the crowd. I wasn't expecting a roomful of squirrels at every show or anything. But I was expecting at least some in each city. And we saw, what? Four squirrels and two chipmunks, maybe? But I guess it stands to reason. Most rodents in America live in New York and LA, with hardly anywhere elsewhere in the US. And rodents aren't usually much for going to concerts in clubs. If you don't get up front, your view tends to be nothing but the butt of whoever is standing in front of you. And it's not like we were advertising to the world that the Chipmunks were coming to town. We were just opening for this band.

"But you better believe I went out to meet the rodents that did show up. And I'll always remember what one of those chipmunks in Philadelphia told me. He grabbed my paw, shook it, and said 'All my life, I hoped you were real.' That's some pretty heavy stuff if you think about it. For us, not getting to portray ourselves on TV and record was just annoying. But apparently, there were rodents out there who actually found somebody to identify with in The Chipmunks. Even as paper-thin as they were. It was us or Secret Squirrel, I guess. But think of how much better they could have identified with the actual Chipmunks."

This being our only tour, I don't really have anything to compare it to. I'm guessing as tours go, it was rather smooth sailing. We slept in the truck a few times, but when you're chipmunks, even three to a front seat isn't all that crowded. Other times, if they had one, D.A. let us sleep on their hotel room floor. We'd just find a spot in the corner, take the extra blanket that came with the room, cover us three with it, and shove a rolled-up pair of our jeans under our heads for a pillow. That worked fine, although their drummer snored pretty loud.

If I have a complaint, it's that neither of my brothers could drive at that time. That meant I was stuck behind the wheel for the entire tour. But compared to what other touring bands have to deal with, I'm sure that was really small potatoes.

"It was an unexpected bohemian existence, however temporary," Simon recalls. "You must recall that we were in our late thirties the time - a decade or two after most musicians have faced such travails. Not that it was not enjoyable, after a fashion. But I was quite pleased to return to my home, and resume my professorship at Columbia."

A month or two after the tour ended, I was sprawled out on my couch. Alvin was out picking up lunch, and I was taking a break from building some shelving to work on a song. A couple of days previous, I had been reminded of my unfinished song from two decades previous - "There's No Rock and Roll on Mars". And while humming it to myself, I realized that this might be a good song for the new revitalized Chipmunks to record. It probably wouldn't be a single or anything, but it might make a good album track. So I began scribbling down lyrics and chord progressions. I had the first two verses looking almost acceptable when the phone rang.

"HalFlat - in no time flat. This is TD - how can I help you?"

"Good afternoon, Theodore," said Simon in a sort of mock polite tone. "It is Simon."

"What's going on, brother?"

"Well..." Simon sounded a bit uncertain. "I have a visitor in from out of town. Ross Bagdasarian, Jr."

"Ross is in town? Great!"

"Yes. In fact, Ross and I would like to extend an invitation to dinner at my loft tonight, if you are available." He added, a bit hopefully, "I will be preparing spaghetti and meatballs, which I believe is one of your favorite entrées."

It was, but why was he sounding so odd? "Uh, sure. But Alvin is working at the terminal tonight."

"That may be for the best. We would like to talk with you alone, if at all possible."

"What about?"

"I shall elucidate upon your arrival. Seven o'clock, if that time is convenient?"

"Yeah, I guess so. I have a piece I need to try and finish, but I can just subway over there afterwards."

"Excellent. We look forward to seeing you."

For the rest of the day, as I tried to get the shelving done, I kept wondering what it was that Simon wanted to discuss with me. It couldn't be anything bad, really. Simon was more the type to just announce any bad news right off the bat. I decided that he was just uncertain about something, and wanted my opinion on it.

I showed up at Simon's apartment just after seven. I shook Ross's hand - one of the very few humans I felt comfortable doing that with - and accepted a short glass of beer from Simon. I climbed onto his easy chair, then looked up at them and grinned. "So - what's the story?"

Simon glanced over at Ross. "Ross and I have been looking over the figures," he began. "The income from the last album will be...well, significantly more than we originally had planned."

My grin grew larger. "That's great!"

"Indeed," said Simon, although he didn't sound that enthusiastic. "And not surprisingly, since our arrangement with Excelsior was for one album only, other labels are now expressing interest. While we were touring, I enlisted Ross to speak to those labels on our behalf."

I now glanced over at Ross, a bit confused. "You never mentioned this before. How come?"

Simon looked a bit embarrassed. "To be truthful, I was simply not prepared for this particular turn of events. As Ross is based in Los Angeles, I believed he could simply gauge interest from several labels. I wished to see if any wished to release another album by The Chipmunks, under conditions that we would insist upon."

Ross sat down on the couch across from me, and added, "After all, I didn't do much to earn that money from Chipmunk Punk."

Simon shook his head. "Your input was significant. More than most people realize."

I waved my paw around impatiently. "OK, so Ross talked to some labels. And?"

Simon and Ross shared a questioning look, then nodded. Simon sat down on the sofa next to Ross, rather heavily. "I will endeavor to come to the point. We have received an offer."

"From who?" I asked.

Ross answered. "RCA."

RCA. The Nutty Squirrels had done "Hello Again" for them almost twenty years ago, but that had been a small deal that had came and went almost immediately. And I had plenty of black-labeled (and orange-labeled) 45s and LPs on RCA in my collection, most notably by Elvis Presley. In 1980, they were still a force to be reckoned with - Hall & Oates, David Bowie and Dolly Parton were all on the label at the time.

"OK," I said. "RCA is cool. So, what's the story? Crappy offer?"

"No," said Simon. He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. "Indeed, quite the opposite."

"What do you mean?"

Ross leaned forward. "Theodore," he said, "RCA made an offer better than I would've ever thought possible. They agreed to nearly everything Simon has tried to get for you guys - merchandising rights, your opt-out clause, you name it. And they want to sign you guys for the long haul. A multi-year, multi-album deal."

A huge deal. A huge contract. At a huge label. And yet they were sitting there looking like they were afraid to tell me my goldfish died. "OK. And the bad news?"

Simon looked at me, then looked down. "They want full control."

"Full control? What does that mean, exactly?"

Sighing, Simon admitted, "They wish to select the concepts for the albums, approve if not outright select the songs to be performed, direct the promotion..."

I smirked. "Forget it."

Simon looked at me with a pained expression, and Ross said, "Theodore, the terms here are incredibly good."

"So what? We've been through this before with Liberty, and it stunk. We're not in it for the money." I looked over at Simon for confirmation, but the look on his face caused me to stop short. "...Simon?"

Simon sat still for a second, staring at me through his glasses in that way of his. Finally, he said, "Theodore, what was the impetus for the Chipmunks reunion?"

"Alvin," I said, without really thinking, then stopped short again. Alvin. He was the reason the three of us got back together. Because he was broke. And in fact, hadn't I originally suggested doing the Knack covers specifically because I thought it might draw better than Cemented had? In other words, because it would "sell"? Simon was right. The reunion had been a money-making enterprise from the very start.

I sighed. "OK, fair enough. But do we have to go that route? Can't we continue on like we have been?"

Simon looked doubtful. "We could. But do not forget that Alvin is still deeply in debt. The metaphorical wolves may no longer be directly outside his door, but they are far from gone. As things currently stand, it would take years for him to emerge from his deficit. This deal would greatly hasten that process. Most likely to the point where he would no longer need work at the subway terminal."

I thought for a second. "What does RCA want us to do specifically? I'm assuming they don't want us doing any more Knack covers "

Simon smirked a bit at that. "Almost assuredly not."

"Well, then - what? Do they have songs they do want us to do?"

Simon thought for a second before answering. "Do you recall my explanation from years ago, brother? About what Liberty Records truly cared about?"

"Yeah. The red, blue and green blobs on the cover of the records."

"Precisely so. And so it is with RCA. They desire Chipmunks product which they can sell to the world at large. At this point in time, they appear satisfied with us doing renditions of current hits, although that may change. We will be at liberty to suggest potential songs to record, but the final decision will be theirs. And as Ross pointed out, the opt-out clause will remain in effect. If we choose not to participate, they will find others to perform it for us, and we will receive a smaller share of the profits."

A cover band, but not getting to choose the material. Better than "Alvin for President", I guess, but I wasn't too keen on what sort of songs RCA might think were Chipmunk-appropriate. "Can we still tour?"

Simon looked over at Ross, who said, "Well, uh, they have plans to revive the cartoon, so..."

"...so they want the real Chipmunks out of the spotlight so they can sell the three colored blobs."

"Well, more or less..."

"So now that we're finally firing on all cylinders again, they want us to stop. That's such bullshit." I turned back to Simon. "Come on, brother! You really want to give up everything we've been building over the last year for a fat paycheck?"

"Yes."

I stared at my brother almost without comprehension. "What?"

"Brother..." Simon began, trying to find the right words. "The last several months have not been unpleasant. I have enjoyed recording, performing and even touring with my two brothers. But..."

Slowly, the light dawned. "...this isn't what you really want to do...is it?"

Simon gave me the crookedest smile I've ever seen. "I was pleased to help Alvin when he was in need of assistance. And I have been very pleased to witness you be as happy as you have been this past year or so. But..." Simon shook his head. "No. The life of a full-time recording and touring popular musician no longer holds any interest to me."

"So what do you want?"

"What I desire most is a return to my studies, and an expansion of my research. I wish to travel to the Middle and Far East to continue my studies of ancient music and its preservation. But the salary of a music history professor does not exactly lend itself to all that much travel..."

Another piece fell into place. "...and this contract would help you do more of that." Simon nodded a bit. I stared at him, then got up out of the chair. I wandered over to the window and peered out at the night, trying to collect my thoughts. So Simon doesn't want to be a rock musician anymore. And what about Alvin? Alvin liked playing live, no question. But I honestly don't think he cared that much what he was performing. Even when Simon and I dropped out of recording in the sixties, Alvin was there until the bitter end. I think he'd happily sing anything RCA told him to, especially if it meant no longer scrubbing subway cars for a living. It seemed as if I was the only one of us who was really into this Chipmunks-as-actual-power-pop-band thing. The other two were more or less just tagging along for the ride.

I looked back at Ross. "Well, then, what happens to me?"

"Totally up to you," said Ross, suddenly animated. "If you perform on the records, you get a bigger cut. If you do the voice for the cartoon, again, bigger cut. But you get a share of it regardless. Same sort of deal as last time."

"Can I still perform live? With another band?"

"As long as you don't tie it back to the Chipmunks brand, you're free to do what you'd like," said Ross.

"Can I still perform with my brother?" I said, staring at Simon.

Simon looked back at me. "As Cemented?" he asked, and I nodded. Simon thought for a minute, then nodded once. "Yes. In between my travels. I would enjoy that."

I looked back out the window. My stomach was in knots. An hour ago, I thought I was in a great pop-rock group with a great future ahead. But now I was being asked to blow all that to bits, in exchange for the possibility of a big payday. Or, to look at it another way, I was being asked to ditch my dreams so that my two brothers could chase theirs. But after all the stuff that Simon had done for me over the years...didn't I owe him this?

Suddenly, I felt very very old.

I kept looking out the window. "Simon?"

"Yes, Theodore."

"Do you trust Mr. Bagdasarian?"

There was a pause, but Simon answered. "Yes, Theodore, I do."

That was good enough for me. I sighed, left the window, and walked over to Ross. He stood up, a bit uncertain what I had in mind. "Mr. Bagdasarian?" I said.

"Uh, yes?"

"You get every goddamn penny you can from those bastards." I held out my paw, and he shook it.

"Definitely."

Simon got up and put his hand on my shoulder. "Thank you, Theodore. Sincerely. Thank you." I nodded glumly. "Come - let us get you some spaghetti."

I shook my head. "I'm...really not hungry."

Simon looked even more pained than he did earlier. I don't think he had ever heard me say those words before. "...oh."

"I think I'd like to be alone, if that's OK."

"Oh. Yes, of course."

I left without another word. I didn't bother trying to organize my thoughts on the subway ride home, but just let them come and go. So many things I hoped to see one day. My photograph on a record sleeve. Touring the whole country. Live TV appearances. All those dreams were now officially back to being nothing but that - dreams.

I got to my apartment, grabbed a beer out of the fridge, and then collapsed on the couch. After taking a sip, I almost set to the beer down on a piece of paper. I looked closer to see what it was - my lyrics to "There's No Rock and Roll on Mars". I sighed heavily, and then crumpled the paper up into a ball.


	34. Somehow We Get Around It

"Every night I worked at the terminal, when I'd come home, the lights would be off and you'd be asleep," remembers Alvin. "So I knew something was up when I opened the door and saw the living room lamp on. You were just sitting there on the couch, looking miserable. Or maybe just looking drunk - it was kinda hard to tell. I sat down, and you filled me in on what was going on with Ross, the pending RCA deal, all of that.

"I tried cheering you up. Because to me, at first, it didn't seem that bad at all. Yeah, we had to give up the Chipmunks brand, but there was no reason that we three had to give up performing. We could just do the Little Rocks thing all over again - pick a new band name, and perform under that. But then you told me that Simon really didn't want to be in a band anymore. Did we really want to try building something new if Simon wasn't going to be part of it? And I didn't really have an answer for that."

We stayed up until the wee hours, drinking and talking about The Chipmunks, past present and future. We even pulled out my old Chipmunks albums and played them, laughing and cringing at what we heard. "Near the end of the night, you propped up the 'Go Go' album cover - that one none of us sang on. And we drank a toast to those three drawings on the cover. 'To AL-VIN, his brother Simon, and the one who giggles known as Theodore. May you sons-of-bitches make us all stinking rich.'" Alvin grins. "We had no idea, did we?"

The next morning, I managed to drag myself out of bed to make my way back to the job site to install some shelves. And while I was out, Alvin placed a call to Simon. "I told him that I was excited for the RCA deal. But I also felt really bad for you, and I wanted to try to make it up to you somehow. Our monthly Chipmunks gig was coming up in less than two weeks, and it looked like it might be the last one we'd get to do. So I suggested that we go all out for that one - sort of farewell party to the Chipmunks: The Live Months."

Alvin and Simon started scheming, and they decided to keep the whole thing a surprise for me. My only clue that something was up - which I of course didn't pick up on - was coming home one day to find Alvin trying to play "I've Seen All Good People" on his guitar.

"Simon said your band used to play this song," he said, "with you singing lead."

"Yep. Almost ten years ago, now."

"Wow - that's a kind of strange one for you guys to do." He started the song again. "You still remember the words?"

I shook my head. "Probably not. But let's see." I started singing, and we worked our way through the first half of the song. Surprisingly, I only made one little screw-up, which Alvin found rather impressive. We then laughed a bit, then wandered off to the next room to get back to work, and I didn't give it any more thought.

Gig night finally came around, and Alvin and Simon conspired to have us run late. "I stated that I had mislaid the power cord for my synthesizer," Simon recalls. "Although the probability of me mislaying anything at all - let alone something of such importance - was exceptionally small, as you know how obsessively I organize everything in my home. Thankfully, you were a bit too flustered by the upcoming gig to give it much consideration. This deception enabled us to arrive at Riley's with barely sufficient time to prepare the stage before the gig commenced."

Just before we began, Alvin walked over and whispered to me, "Don't wear yourself out". That was all the warning I got. I wasn't sure what to make of that, but I decided that it just meant we were going to play more songs than normal.

We started the set wearing our Little Rocks jackets, without a setlist - we just yelled out suggestions to each other. In addition to favorites like "Rock Around the Clock", "Telstar", and "Walk Don't Run", we pulled out some tunes we hadn't played in years - "Red River Rock", "Wild Weekend" and even "Spanish Omelets for Breakfast". At one point, I told Simon, "How's about we do some Nutty Squirrels songs?", but Simon just sort of waved that suggestion away. I was a bit miffed by that, but I figured he knew what he was doing.

We finally played "Wipe Out", which would traditionally mean the end of our Little Rocks set. But Alvin indicated for me to keep my jacket on, then turned back to the audience. "This will probably be our last Chipmunks gig for a while," he said. "So we're going to do our best to make it one you won't forget. Hopefully in a good way." The crowd laughed, and Alvin grinned back. "We're going to need some help on these next few numbers, so please help me welcome, on saxophone, James Duncan!"

James walked out, and, surprised, I got up to shake his hand. He had played a few Cemented dates with us, but never with the Chipmunks. Alvin called out the songs, and we did three total with James - "The Twist", "Tequila" and (yay!) "The Girl From Ipanema - Surf Tempo". I shook his hand again when he left stage, and thought to myself that that was a nice treat for my brothers to give me.

Next, Alvin and Simon took off their Little Rocks jackets, so I took mine off as well. Alvin then unslung his guitar and handed it to Simon. This was usually the sign that we were going to do a few Nutty Squirrels songs, but I was surprised to see Simon lean his bass onto its rack rather than hand it off to Alvin. Alvin instead just approached the mic again and said, "Back when I was a teenager and goofing off with my friends, my brothers wrote and recorded some jazz numbers. The three of us sometimes play a couple of them, with me playing bass. But tonight, I thought you might like to hear them with a real bass player. So, please welcome, formerly of the Hector James Quintet - Marcus Green!"

Seeing James had been a nice surprise, but seeing Marcus was more of a shock. He had done a Cemented gig with us really early on, but I hadn't seen him in almost six years. I jumped up and pumped his hand excitedly, which he endured with his usual coolness. And apparently, Simon had been teaching him the Nutty Squirrels repertoire. As Alvin sat offstage, Simon, Marcus and I worked our way through "Zowee", "Uh-Oh!", "Salt Peanuts", and "Uh-Huh". We got a good round of applause for that set, and Marcus gave me a happy high-five on his way offstage.

But my brothers still weren't done. They brought Ross Jr. on stage to sing lead on "Witch Doctor", which he did quite well on. Then they brought Kenny on stage, along with Franklin, a keyboardist that had done a few Cemented gigs with us. Alvin turned to me, grinned broadly, and played the opening guitar lick from "I've Seen All Good People". Apparently, that run-through with Alvin several days before had been a test to see if I still knew the words. I grinned back, pulled my microphone closer in, and started singing.

"We had one further surprise that unfortunately did not pan out," admits Simon. "We managed to track down Joan Castro in Los Angeles, and offered to pay for her accommodations if she would fly out and perform 'Bluesette'. Sadly, she had a very young child at the time and was unable to make the journey."

Both Kenny and Franklin stayed on stage after the Yes cover to help out on "Call Me" and "Refugee", marking the only time The Chipmunks ever played those songs live. But I think, from the audience's point of view, we saved the best song for last. After playing our Knack, Linda Ronstadt and Billy Joel covers, Alvin moved his microphone down off the riser to the front of the stage. He and I picked up our rarely-used ukuleles as Simon started a slow waltz line on his bass. After he played a few measures, Alvin and I began strumming a few chords. And a few measures after that, all three of us leaned into the microphone and began singing.

"Christmas, Christmas time is near..."

And the crowd went completely nuts. I may have gone off-key during the second line, because I literally couldn't hear myself at all. But we stuck with it, only singing the one verse, slowing down the last line for a dramatic finish. That was the one and only time we three ever performed "Christmas Don't Be Late" live on stage, and it brought my birthday concert to a close. In fact, it marked the last time The Chipmunks ever performed on stage under that name.

Things started to move fast after that gig. We signed our contracts with RCA, and Ross asked Alvin to fly back to Los Angeles with him. "RCA did have facilities out in New York, but the people who were pushing the deal were in California. Since I was the one who was most expendable, job-wise, we decided that I would fly out there to sort of act as a representative for all three of us. We'd talk about their plans for the next album, start plotting out the new cartoon, all of that. So I quit my job at the terminal, packed my suitcase, and headed back to California."

Alvin left so suddenly that I was sort of left in the lurch. I had a lot of HalFlat projects booked for the next few months. Without an assistant, I was looking at either a ton of overtime, or telling customers I wouldn't have their projects ready on time. I briefly thought about asking Rusty to help out, but he was pushing fifty, and one of the head honchos at the terminal. I sort of doubted that he would want to come help me build stuff in his spare time. But I figured he might know somebody who would be interested in being my new assistant, so I stopped by his apartment to ask.

As always, Rusty mulled it over before answering. "I believe I might know somebody, neighbor." He turned around and left the room, and then returned with his daughter. "Grace has been looking for a part time job."

"And not at the terminal with Dad," Grace said emphatically.

Rusty sighed. "Teenagers."

I looked at Grace skeptically. "How old are you now, Grace?"

"Seventeen."

"You know anything about woodworking?"

"Took two semesters of industrial arts - straight As," she said defiantly. I glanced at Rusty, who nodded his confirmation.

"Hm. Well, let me show you what I'm in the middle of, and you can see if you might want to get involved."

I led her back to my place, but she stopped short in the living room, looking up at my drum set. "Been hearing you play a lot more recently."

I frowned. "It's not bothering you, is it?"

"Nah, it's cool. Not really loud or anything. And you play pretty good."

"Thanks. I had a lot of gigs recently, and had to learn a lot of songs. But it'll probably be a lot quieter now." I led her into the work room, and showed her the project I was working on. She seemed to grasp what was going on, so I had her start sawing some pieces. It was clear from her first cut that she definitely knew what she was doing. Once she finished, I offered her the job. I was going to have to have Simon help me handle all the paperwork, but it looked like I had my new assistant.

As we headed back, Grace glanced back up at my drum set. "Dad's kind of confused. He thinks you were one of those chipmunks on that old cartoon show."

I gave her a smile. "Yeah, I get that sometimes."


	35. Making Music With My Friends

Alvin's "quick trip" to Los Angeles ended up lasting quite a bit longer than anybody expected that it would. "It was kind of ridiculous," Alvin says. "Ross and Simon had agreed to let RCA make the first move. Instead of saying right off the bat 'we want to do this', we thought we'd find out where they were coming from first, and then just sort of nudge it into our comfort zone. But none of the meetings I went to ever felt like the last one. They were always nice and everything, and it kept looking like were making progress, but the meetings all ended with 'OK, let's take this and move ahead and meet back in a week or two to see where we are'. So my trip back to New York kept getting delayed. Lucky for me, Ross had this small room in their basement, and he was letting me live there rent-free. But I was there with all this spare time on my hands...and no money, so I couldn't actually do much of anything."

Eventually, Alvin did ask us to send him some money. And I'll admit that I was a little stunned by the request - he wanted it to pay for singing lessons. "I had given it a lot of thought. You had more or less given up your live music career for this RCA deal. So I decided that if this whole shebang failed, it wasn't going to be on account of anything I had done. If they gave me a crappy song to sing, I was at least going to sing it as well as I possibly could. I started some weekly meetings with Andrea, a vocal coach who had worked with some rodents, and soon I was wandering around Ross's place practicing my vowel sounds."

Finally, RCA decided on a plan for the first Chipmunks album for the label - a modern country LP. "On paper, it made total sense," Alvin admits. "That _Urban Cowboy_ movie was a huge hit right about then. And RCA was doing great in the country market at the time, - Dolly Parton and Alabama were both on the label. They even contacted a couple of their of their country acts, and lined up Jerry Reed and Brenda Lee to record with us. There was just one teensy little problem. Namely, none of us three knew a damn thing about country music. But, you know, record labels will be record labels."

It wasn't much of a surprise when Simon chose not to participate. "The recording dates coincided with the tail end of the semester, but I felt no compulsion to cross the country to attempt to perform within an idiom I was unfamiliar with." But I decided to at least try to take part. I rearranged my HalFlat orders so I could take a week off, and I flew out to Los Angeles in early December. Ross let me crash on his couch, and the next day, I went into the studio to play drums and provide backing vocals for "I Love a Rainy Night". But then the sessions ground to a halt.

"I don't even remember what that was all about," says Alvin. "I don't think it was a legal thing. It may have just been another round of meetings or something. But everything was on hold for the rest of the week." Whatever the cause, I couldn't extend my stay - I had HalFlat orders that needed to get done by Christmas. So I spent the next few days visiting Robert and Scooter, and then flew back home, having barely participated in the album sessions at all.

Alvin says once everything was resolved, the album came together pretty quickly. "RCA took forever in the conference room, but the guys in the recording studio were pros. They had good musicians in place, and the songs usually only took two or three takes. They brought in two gophers - Stephen and Jonathan - to handle the background vocals. Back in the sixties, the session rodents that Liberty got to fill in for you guys were decent enough, but never much more than that. But Stephen and Jonathan were really good. They'd ask me 'Does this sound like Theodore? Is this how Simon would sing it?' They actually cared enough to check, which was kind of nice. And of course, I got to sing with Brenda Lee and Jerry Reed! That was a lot of fun."

It was Alvin that gave Ross a more active role in the Chipmunks game. "In one of those interminable meetings, RCA said that they wanted to bring back the whole David Seville 'AL-VIN!' thing, just on a couple of songs. So I told them OK, but if we're gonna have a David Seville, you're gonna have to use Ross. His father was the real Dave, for crying out loud. Ross wasn't sure about it at first - he said it felt a little weird taking his father's place. But he was great at it. To be honest, I think Ross might have been better at being David Seville than the actual David Seville was!"

Alvin recalls one incident that took place while recording the album. "They decided that we were going to do 'Coward of the County'. Made sense from a marketing standpoint - it had been a huge country and pop hit for Kenny Rogers about a year before. But the day before we went in to record it, I said 'wait a second - isn't that the song about a barroom brawl after a gang rape? You sure you want that sort of thing on your kid-friendly record?' And everybody was like 'uhhhh...'. I guess nobody had really considered the lyrics before they selected it. Somebody quickly rewrote some of the lyrics, and had them ready before the recording session. So in the version I sing, Tommy is avenging his best friend who got beat up by some bullies. It at least avoided the whole rape thing, but it was still kind of strange. 'If your friend gets beat up by bullies, you should go beat up the bullies in return.' Great lesson for the kids. And it made no sense at all. They were presenting The Chipmunks as young teenagers, but in that song, I'm supposedly the foster parent to a twenty-year-old. And I sing that my nephew's daddy died in prison. So I guess that'd be one of you, so that means either you or Simon was dead? I guess?"

They named the album Urban Chipmunk, since Urban Cowboy was still fresh in everybody's minds. The cover depicts Alvin aping John Travolta's classic barroom pose from the film, nursing a bottle of root beer. It was my first look at the RCA-era Chipmunks artwork. And honestly, now that I was resigned to once more being in animated form, I kind of liked it. It didn't look much like Alvin, of course, but there was definitely more personality in that one drawing than there had been on most of the later sixties records. Simon and I are nowhere to be seen on the cover, but then again, that pretty well matches the contents of the album.

Alvin's take on the album today? "It's pretty good, actually. It's a little slick even for early '80s country, and you can tell my singing lessons had only just started kicking in. My voice is better but it's a bit too...precise. Not a lot of feeling. But I like it more than most of our sixties stuff. It's a passable bit of early '80s country."

The first single "On the Road Again" didn't really go anywhere, but the Jerry Reed duet made the lower reaches of the country chart. And while the album didn't quite match what Chipmunk Punk had done, it had a healthy chart run, topping out at number fifty-six. It also made the top thirty of the country album chart, and eventually went gold. "I bet that pissed off Waylon Jennings," smirks Alvin.

The album had only been out a week or so when Alvin called to tell me the next move in the Chipmunks masterplan - an animated Christmas special. "We knew that RCA was going to be reaching out to a TV network to get another cartoon version of The Chipmunks off the ground. So Ross and I decided to get proactive about it. We had waited around long enough for RCA to come up with a gameplan for the record - Lord knows how long they'd take to plan the actual cartoon. So Ross started writing a script."

Few people know this, but Alvin initially tried to nudge Ross in a completely different direction. "My idea was to make the Chipmunks adults, or at least older teenagers. We'd be living together in an apartment or house, like the Monkees did on their TV show, or the Banana Splits on that Saturday morning show. And 'our manager David Seville' could live upstairs, or next door. Those shows had done really well with kids, even though they didn't revolve around child-age characters. Ross thought about it, and even tried writing a script or two with that basic premise. But it just never really worked for him. I think he had always had David-Seville-as-surrogate-father in his head, and he had a hard time letting go of it. Besides, they had resurrected the 'AL-VIN!' Dave for the Urban Chipmunk album. So, once more, The Chipmunks were these maybe-children-maybe-teens living with Dave."

Ross submitted a script for a holiday special, and RCA liked it enough to shop it around. NBC must have seen something they liked in it, because they quickly offered a deal. But before Simon and I would sign any contracts, we had Ross send us a copy of the script. We read it, talked it over, and decided to take part. "It was juvenile, to be sure," admits Simon. "But it was not embarrassingly so. Also, the money would prove to be most welcome for an upcoming excursion. Therefore, I gave my assent. It is mildly ironic that the cartoon had an overreaching anti-greed message, as monetary recompense was the main motivation for my involvement." We arranged to fly out during his spring break at Columbia to record the dialogue for the show, and put down vocals for a few songs for the soundtrack.

Luckily, by this point, Grace had gotten the hang of HalFlat, and didn't need much direction from me to keep things moving. She says, "You told me you'd be going out of town during my spring break, which kinda sucked. I was looking to have some fun of my own, you know. But it meant a lot more hours, and a lot more money, so at least there was that. I asked where you were going, and you said, 'oh, you know - got a new Chipmunks cartoon to make'. You winked, though, so I figured you were just kidding."

The dialogue recording for the Christmas special went really smoothly. We had all gotten the script beforehand, and there weren't too many last minute changes, so it was just a matter of pounding through it. The only real snag came right at the beginning. Phil Monroe, the director, thought my voice sounded too similar to Alvin's. In order to make it sound different, he asked if I could kick my voice up a notch. That's right - someone actually asked a chipmunk to raise the pitch of his voice. I gave it a try, and he said it was perfect like that. Unfortunately, that meant a bit more work for me. I had to remember to sort of open my eyes wide, stretch my throat out a bit, and speak in this slightly unnatural register. Sadly, that would be "Theodore Chipmunk" for the next decade or so - the slow, extra-high-pitched, gee-Davey-sounding one.

There was one great surprise for me during the recording. They hired someone special to do the voice of Mrs. Claus - none other than June Foray! I hadn't seen her since the original Alvin Show had wrapped production. After we finished recording that day, we went out for dinner together to catch up on what had been going on in our lives for the last two decades or so. It was a lot of fun getting to see her again.

Simon has one word for the special - "inane" - but Alvin liked a few aspects of it. "Ross at least fleshed out the characters a little. In the sixties, each of the Chipmunks basically had one characteristic - Simon was smart, Theodore was hungry, Alvin was an egomaniac. In this special, Alvin is still kind of self-centered, but he gives up a prized possession right near the start of the show, just to make a sick kid feel better. Ross at least was trying to make the characters more likable."

That prized possession was a Golden Echo harmonica, which was the major plot point of the show. A young boy is sick, his sister says a Golden Echo harmonica will make him feel better, and so Alvin decides that this kid can have his harmonica. (Because, let's face it - nothing heals a sick child faster than a harmonica pre-contaminated with rodent spittle.) Then The Chipmunks get booked to play Carnegie Hall, and Alvin comes up with crazy schemes to raise money to buy a new harmonica. Alvin wryly notes, "Maybe that was a little jab at the music industry. Where you can be booked to play Carnegie Hall but still can't afford a damn harmonica." That said, the animation was significantly better than anything we did in the sixties, and I've met a few people who still hold fond memories of the special.

Doing the soundtrack was pretty simple, too. Most of the songs were holiday numbers that we'd already recorded at some point. Alvin does hasten to point something out. "I can play harmonica, but that's not me playing on 'Silent Night'. Whoever it is did a way better job than I could have done." Those recordings gave RCA their own versions of our holiday hits to put out as a soundtrack album. It got up to number seventy-two on the chart, and after a few holiday seasons, it eventually went gold. That's three gold albums in a row, for those of you keeping score at home.

During the summer of 1981, I had a visitor come stay with me for almost a week - Robert Yokomizo. "I was between marriages," he recalls, "and I hadn't taken a vacation for years. So I came up with the idea of flying out to visit you in New York. I timed my trip for when the Dodgers were in town playing the Mets. We bought tickets to all three games, and I was looking forward to finally watching the Dodgers play with my long-suffering Dodger buddy. But of course, that didn't happen."

A bit before Robert was due to arrive in New York, contract negotiations between the baseball players and the owners fell apart, and the league went on strike. All the games were canceled for the duration of the strike, included the ones we had bought tickets for. I felt really terrible for Robert, even though I obviously couldn't have foreseen anything like that. But I was determined to try to make up for it. I booked a few typical New York excursions for us, took him to a few of my favorite restaurants, and convinced Simon to throw together a semi-last-minute Cemented gig.

"We had placed Cemented on hiatus once Alvin relocated to California," Simon explains. "The Chipmunks tour was brief but it was sufficient to sate my desire for live performances. However, I was pleased to help arrange for Robert to witness what Cemented was capable of." We were stuck playing on Monday, so the crowd wasn't all it could have been. But Kenny, Marcus and Franklin all did great.

Another notable thing happened that summer. Grace was graduating from high school, and I had to figure out what to get her as a gift. The more I thought about it, the more I realized what an integral part of HalFlat she had become over the past year or so. So instead of some little gewgaw, I offered her a share of the HalFlat business. Grace says she had to think that over. "I did like working for you, but I had always thought of it as just something to do until I graduated...or at least until I figured out what I really wanted to do. But then I thought, heck, I may never find another job that I love as much as this one. So I said yes."

It was about six months later that Grace came over to my place along with both of her parents. "You invited us over to watch 'A Chipmunk Christmas', and I thought that was really weird. I mean, it's a kid's show, right? But Dad said, why not, it'll be fun. Thomas was there, too - I hadn't met him before. We sat down, and as you served the eggnog, you started talking in this high squeaky voice. 'Time...to...get...up, Dave!' I was looking at you like you'd lost your mind. Then the show started, and the first thing Theodore says, in exactly the same voice, was 'Time...to...get...up, Dave!' I finally got it. That WAS you on the cartoons. I looked over at you, and you had this stupid grin on your face."

Grace remembers somebody else being even more embarrassed. "Thomas looked kind of miserable. Every time Simon had a line, Thomas looked like he wanted to disappear."

The next morning, when I got my mail, there was a small envelope mixed in with the regular stack of bills. I immediately recognized the scratchy handwriting on the front - it was from Alvin. That was kind of strange, since I had just talked to him on the phone earlier in the week. I sat down on my sofa and tore it open. Inside was a small Christmas card, with a painting of a Christmas tree. It was blank on the inside except for a few words that Alvin had written.

"Brother - Thank you. For everything. - Alvin"

I stared at the card for a while. Then I got up and put it on my mantelpiece, where it stayed until sometime in June.


	36. The Eventual Winner

At the end of 1981. Simon and I agreed to give Alvin control of his own money again. "It was a relatively simple procedure to oversee Alvin's finances while he resided in New York," Simon explains. "But it was far more complicated from three thousand miles away. To his credit, Alvin never once complained about the financial restrictions we had imposed on him. And when he alerted us that he was seeking employment in Los Angeles, it seemed a prudent time to remove those restrictions."

Alvin says, "Simon called me every week - to see how things were going, and to help me with my budgeting. My debts were getting paid off, and I was on stable ground again. But I had all this time on my hands. Before I left New York, I had two part-time jobs that kept me busy, on top of the live Chipmunk stuff. Once I was back in LA, I wasn't doing a thing other than recording, and meeting with RCA once in a while. Ross and Janice had no problem with me staying in their spare room in the basement - I guess I'd learned how to be a good roommate while living with you. But I was getting bored and restless just hanging around there all day. I needed to bite the bullet, and go get a job."

I'll admit I was surprised when Alvin first told me what job he got. "I had started going to the library once or twice a week. It's cheap entertainment, you know? One day, I saw a note up on their bulletin board. They were looking for somebody to do storytime for the kids once a week. And I thought, heck, I used to read children's jokes on TV - this wouldn't be much different."

The library staff was more than a little reluctant to hire Alvin. "They had me read a few books out loud to them. They wanted to make sure I could be understood by everybody. I used my best Mrs. Klingensmith voice, and they all agreed I sounded good. And then they had to clear it with some board members or something. I mean, come on - I was a kid's show host on TV, and nobody had a problem with me talking to thousands of kids back then. And now I can't read a book to twenty of them? I almost gave up because it seemed like it was one thing after another. But I stuck it out, and they finally decided to give me a try.

"They did ask me if I could change my name to something more 'fun'. And, of course, they suggested Chippy the Chipmunk. If they had picked any other name I probably would have gone along with it. But no, I wasn't doing Chippy again. Not after Billings." Alvin grins. "So I told them, 'Look, what's wrong with Roger? Can't I just be Roger?' They eventually decided they were fine with that."

Alvin remembers the first book he read at story time. "It was Alexander's Birthday Surprise. Some book about a kid who wanted a bike for his birthday, but he got a homemade blanket instead. There were about two dozen kids there for storytime, and almost ten library folks watching to make sure nothing went wrong. I don't know what they thought might happen - maybe I'd go rabid and starting biting the kids?" He shrugs. "Anyway, I started out by walking around with the book under my arm, chatting with the kids. 'The book I'm going to read today is about a boy who gets a present for his birthday. Do any of you have a birthday soon? What would be a big surprise for your birthday?' And after a bit, the kids started yelling out answers. I had to tell them to keep it down." Alvin grins. "But those are the problems you want to have at story time. I finally started reading the book, and I'd stop after every few pages to sort of encourage them to stay involved. When Alexander saw that he didn't get a bike, one of the kids sort of said 'awww'. And I looked at her and said, 'I know! If I wanted a bike and got a blanket, I'd be pretty sad, too!' The kids tried to guess what would happen. If it got too loud, I'd just hold up my paw and say 'well, let's calm down a bit, and I'll read some more, OK?' And they'd get quieter and let me go on.

"Story-time ran five minutes over or something, but who cares - the kids loved it. I told everybody that I'd be back next week with another book, and the kids sounded excited for it. This little girl, maybe three years old, she sort of ran up to me and gave me a hug. Completely out of nowhere. 'I love you, Roger Chipmunk!' Then sort of ran away." Alvin grins. "Kids get it. They think rodents are cool. It's adults that get it all screwed up."

So why was Alvin such a hit at story time? "I asked Simon about it, and he said something that kind of made sense to me. He said that when human adults do something like story time, they try to sound like parents, and that puts them in a superior position. So there's this vague sort of feeling that they're talking down to the kids. And the kids pick up on that, even if they don't really notice it, and they kind of resent it. But someone like me is removed from that. A chipmunk can approach a child on something more like their own level. They saw me more like a friend than yet another authority figure. So I think that's why they enjoyed it more." Alvin shrugs again. "Whatever the reason, the library staff loved it. Within a few months, I was doing story time at three separate libraries."

While he was becoming a fixture on the library circuit, Alvin talked to Ross about the next move for the Chipmunks. "I think the guys at RCA were hoping for a bit more from us. They were happy with the cartoon special ratings, but Chipmunk Punk had sold more copies than either of the first two RCA albums, and we had done that one without RCA's promotional push. So I thought the smart move would be to do what we did on that album - just focus on covers of recent pop-rock hits."

Ross was on board with the idea but wondered about his role. "RCA wanted 'David Seville' to be involved in the Chipmunks stuff again, but how? It didn't make sense to have 'David Seville' sing along with us to 'Jessie's Girl'. That didn't fit the persona at all. So Ross came up with this great sort of framing device for the album. David would be coaching us on singing some old hoary standard, then he'd head out, and we'd break out the rock. It was actually a bit of a pleasant dig at Ross's father, who was into those really old songs. Singing 'Down By the Old Mill Stream' for the album was almost like being back with the old David Seville."

Ross asked RCA if we could submit a list of songs that we would like to record for the album. RCA agreed to consider them, with the reminder that they would still be choosing the final playlist. So Alvin called me up, and we put together a list of twenty or so recent pop-rock hits that we'd like to perform. ("By this point, Simon wasn't paying any attention to pop music, and probably couldn't have named ten pop songs from the last year," points out Alvin.) Ross turned the list in to RCA, and a week or two later, they had a revised list back to him.

"Their list was...weird," says Alvin, somewhat diplomatically. "They only agreed to two of our picks - 'Jessie's Girl' and 'Heartbreaker' by Pat Benatar. They had added a second Pat Benatar song to the list, 'Hit Me With Your Best Shot'. I hadn't even considered that one, because it has lines like 'before I put another notch in my lipstick case'. It was clearly a song for a girl to sing. A good song, but not really ideal for us to sing. A lot of their picks were like that - confusing."

Some of their choices weren't bad. "Queen of Hearts" had been made a hit by Juice Newton, but I owned the Dave Edmunds version, and it sounded like a good sideways move from the Urban Chipmunk material. We couldn't hope to duplicate Electric Light Orchestra as a three-piece, but we felt we could probably nail the "Hold on Tight" harmonies. The ABBA song seemed like it was a bit out-of-date, even though it was only four years old. A few of their picks seemed rather new-wavish and keyboard-heavy - "Whip It" and "Bette Davis Eyes" - but they were big enough hits that we understood why they picked them. But two of their song selections really didn't make any sense at all.

"There was something of a sixties revival commencing in popular culture," recalls Simon, "so I comprehended RCA desiring a sixties cover. 'Leader of the Pack', however, concerns a rebellious male teenager who perishes in a motorcycle accident, sung from the vantage point of his grieving girlfriend. Not precisely an ideal selection for three male chipmunks to record. One could not easily tone down the death scene, or to change the point of view to a male perspective." We must have banged our heads together for a week, trying to figure out how to make that one work. Finally, Alvin had an idea - camp it up. We recorded it like that, and it almost works that way. Maybe RCA was on to something there.

But we put our collective foot down with the other song they wanted us to do - Olivia Newton-John's "Physical". Alvin says, "It was an enormous hit, sure. But did anybody at RCA listen to the lyrics? 'There's nothing left to talk about unless it's horizontally'?" Ross and Alvin voiced their concerns to RCA, and they admitted they were mainly thinking of the 'aerobic-style' feel of the song. "They liked the idea of having a song by The Chipmunks that promoted exercising. And that song does, just not in the way they were thinking. So Ross and I suggested that we write an original 'stay healthy' song. They were open to that idea, so we got to work on writing one.

"I had this half-written song in my head I called 'I Really Wanna Know You'. Typical first-draft love song. Ross and his wife Janice helped me revamp it into a song about being overweight. 'I Really Wanna Know You' became 'I Really Wanna Lose You'. And since you were the one who had problems with his weight all his life, I thought, hey, Theodore can sing this one. I laid down a demo - just me on vocals and guitar - and sent it to you, thinking you'd love to sing lead on it."

Actually, Alvin's demo made me angry. It had taken me years to sort of come to grips with my weight. Working with my hands all those years had put me in better shape than I'd ever been before, but I still was kind of chubby. And here I was, finally getting offered a lead vocal for the first time after nearly a quarter-century of recording...on a song that was all about how fat I was.

"You sort of exploded on me," admits Alvin. "You said, 'what if the first song you ever got to sing lead on was about getting kicked out by your landlady? Or about your stupid Christmas pageant?' And that sort of opened my eyes. I hadn't really thought about that. The original lyrics to the song were sort of mean - I remember there was a line in there about you not being able to see your feet. So I asked if we could try rewriting them, and we got back to work on it." The rewrite was much better. It wasn't as mocking, and the lyrics actually sort of addressed the frustrations I sometimes felt whenever I was trying to lose weight. So I agreed to take lead on that song.

Simon and I flew out to Los Angeles the first week in January to record the album. We went straight to the studio to meet up with Alvin, and when we got there, they were working on "Bette Davis Eyes". (It was one of the songs they didn't need me or Simon for, since it's all synth-based and has no backing vocals.) We watched through the glass as Alvin laid down his vocal, and my jaw almost hit the floor. "His voice had improved by a sizable margin just since the last album," agrees Simon. "His pitch and phrasing were far better than I had ever heard. While I still questioned the wisdom of selecting that particular song for a Chipmunks recording, Alvin certainly performed his vocals with aplomb."

After he finished up, Ross took us all to his place, and we started some rather intensive rehearsals. We had sort of learned our parts individually, but we needed to rehearse our harmonies. And having heard Alvin do so well in the studio earlier in the day just pushed me to try to nail my parts, as well.

The song I remember rehearsing the most was the ELO cover, "Hold on Tight". We actually had to learn the song twice - once in three-part harmony to sing the lyrics, and then another run-through where we add the "wa wa ooo"s. On top of that, the song includes a verse in French, and although Simon was pretty familiar with the language, neither Alvin nor I spoke a word of it. Rather than try to teach us the proper French pronunciation, Simon just rewrote the lyrics phonetically for us to sing, giving it whatever French accent we could muster.

A cushioned wha'? Add-on rev

A cushioned wha'? Add-on rev

Comped of waddled bottle party

Come to sun to hearsay pieces

A cushioned whaaaaaaa'? Add-on rev

The weird thing is - it worked. It actually sounded like we knew what we were singing. In fact, the folks at RCA looked damn impressed after we finished that one.

The three of us only played our instruments on three of the tracks - the Rick Springfield song and the two Pat Benatar covers. The rest of the time, they used session musicians, and RCA was cool enough to list them all on the back of the record jacket. This was a nice change from Liberty, who apparently liked to push the illusion that we three were playing everything, even though they rarely let us play anything at all.

The last song we recorded was the original that Alvin and the Badgasarians had written for me - "Losing You (I Really Want to Lose You)". We opened the song with me saying "Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the thinnest of them all?" Then I sighed and said, "Well, not me - that's for sure'" and we kicked into the song. We managed to get that one done in just a few takes, and I'll admit to enjoying myself a lot during that recording. It was me singing lead, on an original song of ours, and I thought we sounded incredible. I probably sang that whole song with a big stupid grin on my face. Of course, RCA had to go and overdub the second part of my intro with this booming "Not you, Theodore!" But I refuse to let that mess things up. I'm still really proud of that song. One woman later told me that she used that song to help motivateher own weight loss attempts. And I consider that to be one of the best Chipmunks-related compliments I ever got.

There was another bit of label foolishness on the record. They of course wanted to make sure the album was "child-friendly", so they combed through the lyrics to make sure nothing was too "adult". They didn't have a problem with "you're the right kind of sinner to release my inner fantasy" from "Heartbreaker". But they decided there was a line in "Whip It" that needed changing. Which is why we sing "step on a crack/scratch your mother's back" instead of "break your mother's back". "It was ridiculous," says Alvin. "The phrase is from a schoolyard rhyme. You know, those things that kids say?" But we didn't argue the point. Although I kind of liked the Devo song, I didn't really think that it was a good fit for us - satirical new wave wasn't exactly our strong suit. We just sort of "whatevered" that recording.

But all in all, we were all pretty proud of our work on the album. "There are little issues," Alvin admits. "We messed up a word in 'Heartbreaker' which nobody caught. A few songs sound a little stiff. And the cover art was a bit much. Here I was trying to overcome my ego problems, and they go and carve my likeness on Mount Rushmore. But overall, I think we did great." Is it his favorite Chipmunks album? Alvin mulls it over a bit before answering. "For the 80s Chipmunks? I'd say Chipmunk Punk has the better songs, but Chipmunk Rock has the better performances." I'd agree with that.

Unfortunately, the album didn't do so great. It fell a bit short of the Top 100 album chart. They put out "Bette Davis Eyes" and "Heartbreaker" as a single, but it didn't go anywhere. The novelty factor of having rodents singing pop-rock songs appeared to have worn off.

However, the recording indirectly led to Alvin's s next job in Los Angeles. "One of the musicians had a brother named Carl who worked for the LAPD. Carl was asked to create a presentation on traffic safety to take around to a few elementary schools. He was looking for a mascot - Safety Squirrel, I think he was calling it back then - so his brother put us in touch.

"I met Carl for lunch, and he told me his ideas for the presentation. And frankly, they kind of stunk. It was nothing but him reading off a bunch of safety pointers, with me dressed up in a superhero costume yelling out catchphrases once in a while. I couldn't imagine any kid, of any age, finding that interesting. So I sort of suggested that maybe we could try something different. I could play the role of a young kid, and Carl could stop me from jaywalking, and then he'd sort of teach me all of the things he was supposed to. And after each major point, I would say 'OK, let's see if I got this', and I'd pull out my guitar and do a little song about it.

"Carl said, well, who's going to write these songs? And I said I could probably do it. To show him what I meant, right there in the restaurant, I sang this little number - 'Where do you cross? At the corner, at the corner'. And he loved it. Up until that point, he looked like he would rather be doing anything else, but he suddenly looked interested. i met at his place a few days later, where we wrote our first script, and I worked on a few more songs. We rehearsed a few times, and did our first safety assembly about a month later."

Alvin grins. "I ended up writing six or seven little songs to do for the first assembly. And over the years, I must have written about twenty songs total, as we changed the focus around a bit. But the one song that always went over best with the kids? The one I came up with off the top of my head at the restaurant - 'At The Corner'. From the very first time. During the second chorus, I'd sing, 'Where do you cross?' and look out at the kids, and they always sang back 'at the corner, at the corner'. I had finally written a hit, even it was mainly heard by six-year-olds.

"The assemblies were a hit from the word 'go'. They went so well that Carl and I formed a company to put them on - The Safety Corps. At first, it was just us two. But after a few years, we were getting more requests than we could possibly do ourselves. I talked to Stephen and Jonathan - the two gophers who filled in for you two on Chipmunks records. I asked if they might want to play my role at some of these things, and they jumped at the chance. They both had decent singing voices, so I just had to prerecord the backing guitar music for them to use. And we found a couple of guys to take the cop role with them."

Alvin pauses, then smiles crookedly. "Honestly, I probably have you to thank for Safety Corps, too. With HalFlat, you showed me it could be done. You could start from zero and build your own company. It wasn't something I had ever planned on doing, but actually, it's an nice little legacy for Alvin Chipmunk to leave."


	37. Coming On Stronger Than Ever Before

36 (done) COMING ON STRONGER THAN EVER BEFORE

Chipmunk Rock hadn't sold all that well, which led Alvin and Ross to reconsider what the follow-up should sound like. "Labels always loved us doing theme albums, for some reason," says Alvin. "So we came up with a fairly simple idea for the next album: songs from movies. We'd done this once before - well, I had, anyway - with _The Chipmunks Go To The Movies_. But the songs on that album had mainly been easy listening pop. But fifteen years later, rock songs were all over movie soundtracks. So we thought this would be a simple and fun album to do."

The song that inspired that concept was all over the radio at the time. "Survivor's 'Eye of the Tiger' was one of those monster hits you couldn't escape. So we thought, great, we'll start with that. RCA liked the idea, so we went in to record that first." Alvin did call Simon and me to tell us about the session, but said we may as well skip it. It was a single-voice song, with no backing vocals at all.

Alvin adds, "It wasn't until I went into the recording studio that I actually read the lyrics to the song. And they're actually kind of...weighty. 'Rising up to the challenge of our rival, and the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night.' I mean, it's not dirty or anything, but it's not exactly something you'd picture an eight-year-old singing along to. Unless maybe that eight-year-old was Simon."

Once that song had been recorded, RCA gave Ross and Alvin a playlist to work from. And, just like last time, some of their ideas were fine. "It was their idea to open up the concept so we could do TV theme songs, too. 'Greatest American Hero' and 'Dukes of Hazzard' were both good picks. But '9 to 5'? 'Arthur's Theme'? The songs were OK, if a little sleepy for the under-twelve set. But come on - those weren't exactly movies you could picture kids rushing off to see." The choices were lackluster enough that Alvin suggested that Simon and I could skip the entire recording session. "It just didn't sound like it'd be much fun for you guys. There weren't a ton of backing vocals to sing, anyway."

In fact, one song RCA suggested didn't have any lyrics at all. "The last song on their list was 'Chariots of Fire'. For those that don't know, it's an instrumental. Ross and I just stared at each other after reading it. I finally asked him, 'So, should I just stand there and hum?' We thought that idea was hilarious, so we went ahead and recorded it like that. I hummed the melody, with Stephen and Jonathan joining in. Then we dubbed me on top whispering things like 'Doesn't this song have any words?' and 'I don't think we're doing this song justice'. It was utterly ridiculous, but a lot of fun."

But Alvin's most embarrassing moment in regards to the album was still to come. "They wanted us to do a song about E.T. Naturally. I mean, the movie was the biggest hit of the year, and kid-friendly to boot. But there was no pop song from the film. Ross suggested we do a version of Neil Diamond's 'Heartlight', which was a sleepy hit song vaguely related to the movie. But they wanted something more...E.T.-ish, I guess. Which is how Ross and Janine ended up writing that slopfest 'E.T. and Me'.

"Don't get me wrong - they've written some good stuff. But 'E.T. and Me' was pretty much a first draft, whatever-came-to-mind thing. In the lyrics, I ask E.T. to do my homework, and to bring my houseplants back to life. There's this line in that song - 'Hey, E.T., you know the McDonald's on Sunset?' Sure, I bet that alien's familiar with where all the fast food joints in the greater Los Angeles area are.

"As fas as I was concerned, that song, and 'Tomorrow' from Annie, were the two really terrible tracks from that LP. But I figured, OK, the rest of the album is pretty solid, so no big deal. Then RCA releases 'E.T. and Me' as a single, and puts 'Tomorrow' on the flip side. Ugh! It may have been the first time I hoped that a single of ours would bomb." Alvin's secret wish was granted. The single went nowhere, and the _Chipmunks Go Hollywood_ album followed suit.

"It's funny, looking back on it, though," Alvin muses. "In the late sixties, I had ground out the vocals on a lackluster album of movie songs. And then, almost fifteen years later, I more or less did the same thing. The recording process was friendlier, but I was starting to feel kind of disconnected from it all again. It didn't really bother me much the second time, though. I had two other jobs by that point. I didn't have to stay up at night wondering if I'd be able to make rent if these albums didn't sell."

Meanwhile, Ross and Janice were working on the planned Chipmunks return to television. NBC was happy with their work on the Christmas special, so they allowed them to write the treatment and submit some scripts. Once they had finished those, other writers were given scripts to write, as well. Alvin says, "One of the things that Ross and Janice told the other writers - don't just focus on Alvin. In the sixties show, Simon and Theodore were almost bit players, there just to react to Alvin's antics. In the eighties cartoon, they tried to treat all three characters a bit more as individuals."

"There were two stipulations that I needed fulfilled before I would consent to providing my voice for the second cartoon series," says Simon. "First and foremost, I wished to ascertain that the series would be one that I would not mind being associated with it. To be clear, I was not expecting deep and meaningful scripts. I simply did not want to become involved with a project that I would loathe completing. Secondly, the schedule for recording our voice could not greatly interfere with my teaching or studies."

Ross sent us a few scripts, to see what he thought. "Overall, I was pleased. A few lines and situations made me wince, but it was my opinion that young people would probably find the program relatable. Once the scheduling was handled, I gave my assent to providing the voice for Simon."

Scheduling us for the voicework wasn't easy. Simon of course was teaching several classes, and I had my bustling business to deal with. Neither of us had a ton of time to head out to Los Angeles to record. NBC handled things by arranging marathon recording sessions starting right after Christmas. This schedule worked out great for us. Simon was on break from university. There were no Safety Corps assemblies during that time of the year. And I'd be coming off my busiest stretch, at which point Grace could handle the few orders that came in.

The very first thing we recorded was the new theme song for the cartoon - "We're the Chipmunks". It was written by Ross and Janice, and since this was coming fresh off of 'E.T. and Me', we approached the song with very low expectations. Simon admits, "I anticipated the necessity putting on a brave face, and recording an insipid ditty akin to the Alvin Show theme. However, the Bagdasarians crafted a very engaging bit of pop for the theme song. The recording session was quite enjoyable, and once we reached the closing 'doo, doo, doo doo doo doo', I realized that I was actually tapping my foot to the beat. If the theme could produce such an effect on a cynical forty-something chipmunk, I can only imagine how the children watching the program would resond."

We had thirteen complete episodes to get done during those two weeks - both dialogue and songs. So we'd get into the studio in the morning, get one show's dialogue done, and then take a lunch break. After that, we'd work on a second episode's dialogue, and the record the vocals for the songs. (The backing music for the songs had already been recorded before we showed up.) We'd work for two days straight, and then take a day off to rest up our voices.

"We weren't rushed, exactly, but we stayed pretty damn busy those two weeks," remembers Alvin. "And with all the voicework we were doing, we had to do everything we could to keep our voices from running down. Plenty of hand signals between takes, lots of hot tea with our lunches. You had it worse than Simon and me, since they had you talking in your higher register - that put more strain on your vocal cords. But we got through it all pretty well."

The very first episode was your standard chipmunks-take-heirloom-pocket-watch-to-school, bullies-steal-pocket-watch, chipmunks-enlist-help-of-muscular-celebrity-to-retrieve-pocket-watch tale. And we had our very first special guest star on that episode. "Mr. T had his own cartoon in the works from the same production company," explains Alvin. "So the idea of a having a crossover episode made perfect sense, from a marketing standpoint. The idea of Mr. T helping three chipmunks get their stolen pocket watch back made less sense from a logical standpoint, but hey."

In the cartoon, the Chipmunks were all sort of star-struck when they met Mr. T. But it wasn't like that in the studio. I knew he was in that Rocky film, but that was about it. We just said "hi" and waved, and got straight to recording. Alvin adds, "He was nice and all. Wasn't the chattiest guy I've met. I don't think he was really happy about having to work in the morning. Plus, I think he was starting to see how ridiculous the whole Saturday morning cartoon business could get. 'OK, we'll start you off by working with the singing rodents from the sixties'."

After lunch, we went straight into Episode Two. The plot - we're out on tour, we pass a hotel advertising The Chipmunks performing live there, we stop in to figure out what's going on, we find out another group is using the name, we clash, hilarious hijinks ensue. The other music group is a female chipmunk trio who changes their name to the Chipettes, and that group would show up quite a bit on the cartoon as the years went by.

Which leads to a revelation which may be a bit awkward for a few of you. When people find out that Alvin, a Simon and a Theodore Chipmunk actually exist in real life, it's perhaps not surprising that they assume there actually is a Brittany, a Jeanette and an Eleanor, as well. But no, there isn't. "They are a simple bit of fiction, created by Janice," Simon reveals. "But a very shrewd bit of fiction. Adding female protagonists to the program allowed girls to better relate to the cartoon, in addition to giving our cartoon representatives some amorous counterparts."

"The Chipettes were basically just female versions of the cartoon versions of The Chipmunks," says Alvin. "Bossy scheming one, smart one, shy fat one. It was a little lazy on their part. I always thought it would've been more interesting if they had chosen different character traits for them. Or at least messed with the pairings - had Alvin and Eleanor start dating, for instance. Also, it seemed like every other episode was another boys-vs-girls competition. It would've nice if we were just friends or tour mates."

Simon explains it all rather simply. "Competition is conflict. No conflict, no plot. No plot, no cartoon."

You may have noticed that "Theodore's" female counterpart is named Eleanor, which was the name of the female squirrel whose heart I had broken almost a decade before. "Total coincidence," Alvin insists. "Ross didn't even find out about the real-life Eleanor until you told him about her, and that was after you saw the name in the scripts. I think Janice picked the name just because it sort of rhymed with Theodore." It was a little late to do anything about it by then, so I just had to suck it up and deal with it.

My favorite moment came about halfway through the two-week session, when The Chipmunks got to lay down the vocals for a song I started writing nearly twenty-five years earlier - "There's No Rock and Roll on Mars". Alvin had heard that Ross working on a space-related script, and had given me a call. "For each episode, we were given a popular song to record, or had one written for us. Each of the songs were related to the plot somehow. So when I saw Ross working on an outer-space script, I thought 'Sci-fi Theodore could probably come up with something for this one.'" Simon helped me finish off the lyrics, then we recorded a guitar-and-dual-vocal demo to send out to Ross.

Not surprisingly, the folks at RCA made some changes. They transformed it from a midtempo rock number into a keyboard-heavy 80s pop song. That made it fit in better with the other Chipmunks songs of the time. But even in its overly slick form, I was quite proud of it. Simon smiles and says, "All three of us gave our utmost on that recording. It may have been destined for obscurity, due to its placement in an animated children's program. But Alvin and I were acutely aware that the song held great meaning to you, so we gladly gave the extra effort to ensure it was as good as possible." RCA even included it on an LP of songs from the cartoon. That meant that more kids got to hear it, and Theodore got a slightly bigger paycheck.


	38. The Boys Are Back In Town

Simon and I boarded our flight back to New York, and I snuggled deeper into my seat - you can sort of do that when you're a chipmunk. While I waited for the flight attendant to start handing out the peanuts, I thought back over the previous two weeks. The entire season was in the can, as far as we were concerned. We had nothing to do but wait until September for them to finish the animation, and for the cartoon to premiere.

"That was fun," I told Simon.

Simon thought for a few seconds, then nodded. "Once more, we are voicing adolescents and singing songs written by others. But you are correct. I enjoyed myself more than I anticipated."

I frowned a bit. "Why do you think that is?"

"A variety of reasons. The scripts are somewhat stronger, and the songs more up-to-date. Also, we were consulted at each step of the process. It was not the same as before, where scripts and songs were simply placed in front of us." Simon paused, then added, "And there is the biggest difference of all."

"Which is?"

"We three. We are not the same chipmunks that recorded for Liberty."

I was about to ask what he meant, but the peanuts arrived at that moment, and I got a bit distracted. (Theodore will be Theodore.) But a few minutes later, as I sat back in my seat, I thought about what Simon had said. We really weren't the same chipmunks anymore, were we? We were twenty-five years older, with many life experiences under our belts. We had had our ups and downs, our falling-outs and our getting-back-togethers. And despite one of us living three thousand miles away, I don't think we'd ever been closer. We knew each other better, understood each other more...and probably even loved each other more. Life was going pretty well right then. There was only one thing in my life that I was truly missing. I turned back to Simon, who was leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed.

"...Brother? Would you be interested in restarting Cemented?"

Simon didn't answer right away, and I wondered if he had fallen asleep. But finally, he said, "With my classes, my research, my mentoring...I do not believe I have sufficient time and mental energy to devote to a weekly musical gig."

I was heartbroken, even if his answer made perfect sense. "Oh. OK."

"...but a monthly musical gig? That I could find time for." He opened his eyes and grinned.

Finding a location for a monthly Cemented gig wasn't easy. Riley's had been sold to new owners, and they were already booked every night for a few months ahead. So I went around to some other clubs nearby, and talked to the booking agents. While doing so, it slowly dawned on me how difficult it was to explain the whole Cemented concept to people who had never seen it. "See, I play drums, and my brother plays bass, and then there's these other musicians..."

I did finally get us a regular night, on the third Wednesday of the month. It wasn't at a club, though - it was at an art space. "The Higher Plane Collective," sighs Simon. "It was overseen by a man named William. He was very agreeable but he was...misguided, shall we say. He considered himself a catalyst and nurturer for artistic endeavors. Which he may have been for others. But to be blunt, Cemented was not in need of nurturing. In retrospect, I am uncertain as to whether William ever truly comprehended the entire Cemented concept. He was relentless in attempting to turn every Cemented performance into an 'open mic night', where we would back up any musician that wanted us to play behind them. He also provided what he called 'feedback notes' at the end of each performance, all of which were singularly unhelpful.

"During our residency at The Higher Plane Collective, William performed the first two songs with us," Simon continues. "And despite our suggestion that we perform compositions that he was already familiar with, he always requested that we improvise. Unfortunately, William appeared to know only three chord progressions, and thus we were always greeted with one of those. He was not a terrible guitarist, but he was not an ideal Cemented guest." Once he was done, though, we were allowed to play with a few of our old Cemented regulars. We also found a new favorite one at the collective - a woman named Sandra who played the theremin. Our performances with her often sounded like they could come straight from a 1950s UFO-invasion movie.

It was Sandra who helped us find a new venue. She sensed that we weren't that thrilled playing at the collective, and she recommended that we talk to the owner of a small club just down the street. The Beacon was smaller than Riley's, but it was casual and friendly, and they made some great fried chicken. We talked to the owner, and soon afterwards, we began holding Cemented gigs there on the first Thursday of the month.

Just like we had done for "A Chipmunk Christmas", we held a little premiere party for the new cartoon over at my place. A bunch of our friends came over - Kenny, Rusty, Grace, a few of Simon's colleagues. Since it was Saturday morning, I made French toast and bacon, and just before 10:30, we turned on NBC and watched the first episode.

"It was so strange," remembers Kenny. "Because Theodore on the cartoon was so clueless. I remember the very first line you said on that show. Alvin was looking for something to bring to school for show-and-tell, and Theodore said 'you could bring my apple'. I looked over at you and actually said, 'Are you stupid?!' I mean, hearing you say something so dumb just blew my mind, even if it was just for a TV show."

The cartoon didn't look quite as good as the earlier Christmas special, but it was certainly better animated than the sixties cartoon was. It was sort of fun to watch when I got up on Saturday mornings, and I thought the show would be a fun little footnote to the whole story of the Chipmunks.

...except that it wasn't. The cartoon was a huge hit, and less than a month after the premiere, NBC contacted Ross and said they were renewing the show for the next season. We all decided we liked the show (and money) enough to do another year, so Simon and I arranged to fly back out to California to record the second season's dialogue and songs. By the end of October, Simon and I were receiving scripts and song arrangements in the mail.

"It is a television axiom not to deviate from a successful formula," states Simon, "and they did not. Ross and Janice did somewhat less writing for the second season, but otherwise, the program remained much the same. Once more, we recorded our dialogue for two episodes, then vocals for the songs, and then on to the next two episodes. They included one episode that season in which the Chipmunks masqueraded as elderly men in order to avoid paying for a gymnasium membership. It was always my assumption that that was a quiet nod to the forty-something chipmunks providing the voices."

Alvin remembers, "Starting that season, we did more 'oldies', as they were called back then. 'Breaking Up Is Hard to Do', 'Secret Agent Man'. They even had us do 'It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing'. I think that was because they needed a song tthat somehow related to golf." The rather depressing thought was that some of these "oldies" had originally become hits hits a full decade after I really got into popular music.

But aside from that, I don't remember any of us complaining about the song selections. In fact, although we may have smirked at a dumb line or plot development once in a while, we never raised an objection about anything at all during the course of the NBC cartoon run. Simon suggests that there's more than one reason for that. "If one were to advance the hypothesis that we never raised an objection with the network due to financial reasons, I for one would not agree...although it would be churlish of me to suggest that money was never a factor. The primary reason for the lack of friction, in fact, was Ross. He is about our age, and he has proven time and again that he understood our mindsets. Ross would have never given us songs such as 'Down By The Old Mill Stream' or 'Japanese Banana' to perform, as his father had years before. Any such number that might have been suggested would have been vetoed by Ross before we ever reached California.

"Also, it bears repeating - we were different chipmunks by then. All three of us appeared to have divorced ourselves completely from the cartoon roles. When Theodore was given an inane bit of dialogue, you simply accepted it as part of the mechanics of the production of a children's animated program. In addition, there was no longer a real-life Chipmunks band. The songs we were given to record no longer conflicted with a perceived musical vision for ourselves. As such, our trips to California were busy but generally pleasant affairs."

The cartoon continued to be a ratings powerhouse all through the eighties. Each fall, NBC would see the ratings for the first few episodes, and immediately renew it again. What started as a one-off trip became a yearly sojourn to California, and something we all looked forward ro.

"It's kind of funny," says Alvin, "A lot of people sort of associate The Chipmunks with Christmas, but the holiday season didn't really mean anything to me once we left Mrs. Gorman's house. I didn't buy anybody gifts, or put up a tree or anything. But the 80s cartoon changed that. The holidays meant my two brothers were coming back to town. I started looking forward to December for the first time in many years...which actually even made me start liking 'Christmas Don't Be Late' again."

"The animated show was exceptionally popular," Simon says, still sounding a bit incredulous about it. "If memory serves, it was the highest-rated Saturday morning program of the entire decade. And honestly I am unsure as to the reason why. The show was pleasant, and it did have a good amount of heart, but it never struck me as exceptional. But perhaps that was all it took."

The cartoon was so successful that the entire "Chipmunks empire" was more or less relaunched. Our cartoon likenesses began showing up in toy stores, on comic books, in coloring books, and on boxes of breakfast cereal. There was even a stage show that toured around the country in 1985 called _Alvin & The Chipmunks And The Amazing Computer_. None of us had any direct involvement with it. Somebody approached Ross and Janice about it, we gave it a thumbs-up, and we all got a royalty check. I honestly don't know the first thing about the show, but I was told that the entire run sold out in Pittsburgh (ironically). If you were traumatized at an early age by adult men dressing up in large Chipmunks suits on stage, please accept an apology from the real Theodore Chipmunk.


	39. There's Nothing More That I'd Rather Do

When I had signed on to take part in the cartoon in the 1980s, I was hoping to see my bank account bump up a little. But what I was expecting to be a little shot in the arm ended up being more like a round of steroids. Between the success of the cartoon, and the accompanying Chipmunks toys and games that were rushed to market, we suddenly had quite a bit of extra money coming our way. And while none of us were unhappy with this unexpected windfall, one of us had a few issues with it.

"The show's success messed with my head," admits Alvin. "It's kinda hard to explain. I had really hit bottom just a couple of years before, and after being in denial about it for some time, I finally had accepted it. I was resigned to the fact that I was going to have to slowly crawl my way back up, bit by bit. But suddenly here came these royalty checks. Simon had taught me how to budget my money and everything, but suddenly a lot more money was coming in. Part of me wanted to splurge, but I was petrified of going broke again. Kinda ridiculous, but it was keeping me up at night.

"But once more, Simon came to the rescue. He helped rearrange my royalty checks so that everything got split into two accounts. Half went into my regular savings account, and half into what I called my 'mad money' account. And Simon told me that that account was mine to splurge with. Any one-time purchase I wanted to make with the money in that account, I could. So if I wanted to go out for a nice dinner, or even buy a car...as long as I could pay for it with the money in that second account, I could go ahead and do it. It was a really good plan, and it calmed me down quite a bit.

"I did get a nice place to live. And no, not a Hollywood mansion with a yacht in the pool. I know some people picture us like that, but we've never been at that level. I found a cool little apartment on the ground floor of a large mission-style building, and I also splurged to buy a nice bed for it. I also bought a car. Not a Ferrari, though - a 1983 Honda Accord. Had it retrofitted and painted red, and learned to drive. It was nice to finally be able to drive to my assemblies, and not rely on my producer for rides all of the time."

Unfortunately, Alvin's driving days didn't last very long. "I was driving home from a summer camp assembly, in the left lane of the Santa Monica Freeway. Saw a bit of traffic ahead, and started to slow down. And this guy swung all the way out from the right lane and sideswiped me. Scared the hell out of me. I slammed on the brakes, and got rear-ended, too. The car ended up crushed against the concrete divider. My foot was broken, and my forehead was gashed open. I started freaking out, because I'm stuck inside the car. I couldn't get out from either side, because the car's got me wedged in place against the divider. I was yelling, pounding on the steering wheel, all of that.

"Then a song came on the radio, which had stayed on through the whole damn thing. 'Pop Life' by Prince, his latest hit at the time. And I loved the song, so I tried to focus on that. Singing the words I remember, picking out the chords in my head, tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel. And that calmed me down. They finally wrenched the passenger door open, they looked inside, and there was this bloody chipmunk with a broken foot singing along to Prince. I almost said, 'can you guys wait until this song's over?'

"They set my foot, stitched up my head, gave me some little crutches and sent me home. I had to do a few assemblies like that, all bandaged up. We changed the script for those, made them a bit more cautionary. You know, 'If I hadn't been wearing my seat belt...' Which may have sent the message home a bit stronger."

Alvin bounced back physically, but he hadn't really recovered. "My head was kind of messed up afterwards. I was moody and depressed. Couldn't sleep. I started calling you and Simon more often, and talking for hours about nothing at all, just because I felt better while I was talking to you guys. Then I'd finally hang up, feeling bad about making you listen to my chatter for so long. But an hour later, I'd want to call you again. I should've gone to a therapist then, but...well, you know. It's a lame stereotype that all rodents are supposed to be cowards, and I was dumb enough to think seeing a therapist was like admitting I was scared."

How did he get over it? "Just bit by bit, as time went on. I did finally go to a therapist in the mid-90s, to finish working through some other stuff. And that helped a lot. But I never drove again. Back then, if anybody suggested I get another car, I'd just laugh it off. 'Drove it for six months and had the car destroyed, never again!' But actually, I was terrified to get back behind the wheel. I just took cabs if I needed to. Not the cheapest way to get around, but I had enough money in that 'mad money' account to pay for it." Alvin smirks. "Probably should've moved back to New York with you then. It would have saved me a bundle on long-distance calls, and at least you have the subway there."

It was during one of these lengthy phone conversations with Alvin that he told me that Ross and Janice had been working on something new together - a screenplay. I told Alvin, "That's cool that they're branching out into other areas. Do you know what their movie's about?"

"Oh, yeah - they told me the basic plot. It's kind of out there."

"A fantasy film?"

"Sort of, yeah. It's about three chipmunk brothers who are in band."

I sort of felt myself go cold over. "Ross and Janice are writing a Chipmunks movie?"

"Yep. And it looks like it's set to go, so prepare for another round of contracts."

Sure enough, we got a call from Janice within the next week or so. I invited Simon over for dinner to talk about it, and he seemed willing to take part.

"At this point, we were voiceover actors - nothing more," Simon explains. "I no longer perceived any connection between myself and the character I was voicing. We might have been providing the voices for the Smurfs in that regard. And this voiceover work had become unexpectedly lucrative." Simon had already planned to take a sabbatical during the fall of 1985, to make a few trips for his research. "I asked Janice if she could schedule the voice work around my itinerary, and she was most accommodating."

So in October of 1985, we flew out to Los Angeles to record the dialogue for the first Chipmunks movie. I was really excited during the trip out, but for a completely different reason. The Dodgers were in the playoffs, and I was going to be in town while they were playing! Robert pulled some strings with his friends, and managed to get a pair of tickets for Game 7 of the National League championship series. He met me in my hotel bar to watch Game 6, which the Dodgers needed to win in order to get to that seventh game.

"We drank beer, ate peanuts and hollered at the TV," remembers Robert. "It was almost like we were there at the game. We got a lot of looks, but who cares? It was the Dodgers in the playoffs! We were up 5-4 in the ninth, and both of us were getting excited. I was already looking forward to the game the following day. And then Jack Clark hit that three-run homer to win it for St. Louis. You screamed, 'Nooooo!' which I barely heard because I was screaming the same thing. We couldn't believe it. We stayed in that bar drinking until closing time, thinking of every terrible name we could to call Tommy Lasorda and Jack Clark."

Once more, our plan to see a Dodgers game together had fallen apart. We were beginning to feel like we were cursed somehow.

But there was one thing I did get to do on this trip to California. Alvin found a club not far from the studio where we'd be recording. And somehow, he convinced Hector's to book us to play a gig there. "It wasn't easy", Alvin says. "There were a lot of hurdles. First, I had to convince him that I was Alvin Chipmunk. Then I had to convince him that yes, we could actually play our instruments. I had to play him a solo rendition of 'My Sharona' to accomplish that. Next, I had to convince him to book us, even though he couldn't use the name 'The Chipmunks' - RCA wouldn't allow that. I finally got him to agree to it, but I had to put down a deposit against nobody showing up." Simon brought his bass out to California, and we arranged to have a drum set there for me to use.

Alvin also needed to come up with a new moniker for us. "I just called us AST, after our initials. I had Janice snap a photo of me with my guitar, in silhouette, and I made a few posters. AST with special guests Cemented. 'Sometimes a little rock goes a long way.'" Alvin grins. "That was the caption. Still have that one framed up on my wall."

It was a Tuesday when we played Hector's. The crowd was rather modest, but it was bolstered a bit by some of our California friends - Ross and Janice, Robert, and even Scooter. We opened with a Cemented gig, playing with Geoff, Roberta and a friend of Alvin's named Wyatt, who played guitar. I was curious about another full-sized guitar and amp off to the side of the stage, but when I asked about it, Alvin just smiled and said, "I've got a secret."

Once Wyatt was done, Alvin came on stage. He called out the numbers - mainly Chipmunks 1980 material, with a few Little Rocks numbers mixed in. As the set went on, I noticed that he wasn't calling out any of the Knack songs. But I figured he was just saving them all to do at the end of the set.

After a typically raucous version of "You May Be Right", Alvin stopped and addressed the crowd. "Thanks, everybody. This is only the second show of ours that I've been in charge of setting up. And it seems like each time I do one, I go and book a surprise guest without telling the other guys." He turned back to face us with a sheepish grin, and said, "Sorry, brothers. But I'd like to think it'll be worth it." He turned back to the crowd and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, from the Knack - Doug Fieger!"

If I had been surprised at my birthday gig five years earlier, I was absolutely floored now. Alvin got Doug Fieger to play with us?! Doug walked out, gave Simon and me a grin, then picked up his guitar. I looked down at my feet, and they were stomping like crazy. No, no, no, I thought. I can't screw this up. Not in front of Doug Fieger.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and counted off the opening to "Let Me Out". A few seconds in, I felt the groove take over. I started smiling, and my smile got bigger and bigger as the song went on. It's not like I was the best drummer Doug ever played with - Bruce Gary from The Knack was a monster on the drums. But that didn't matter. I was a musician, damnit. And my brothers and I were making music - damn good music - with the guy who wrote these songs. And it's impossible to explain how incredible that made me feel.

We made our way through "Let Me Out", "Frustrated", "Good Girls Don't", and (of course) "My Sharona". Then Doug asked if we could do "Walk Don't Run", and of course we said yes. Judging by the response we got, the crowd had a really good time. But I'm pretty sure it was nowhere near as good a time as we four on stage had.

"We treated Mr. Fieger to drinks at the bar following the performance," recalls Simon. "And we attempted not to sound too much like squeaky adolescents."

That was tough, because heck, we liked this guy's songs to cover an entire album's worth of them. But Doug was really cool. The Knack had broken up by this point, but he jokingly suggested they might get back together to record a full album of Chipmunk cover versions. "Hey, you guys covering the Knack helped get you back in the public eye. Maybe it'll work the other way around, as well!"

Alvin adds, "Once I got the idea to have Doug take part, I was bound and determined to make it happen. I made a ton of phone calls before finally tracking him down, then I just piled on the Alvin charm until he agreed to it." Alvin pauses a bit before continuing. "In a way, it was my thank-you gift to my brothers. For getting me back on my feet, and for all that you guys had done for me. It wasn't much, but I felt like I had finally at least attempted to pay you guys back."

And yes, amid all this rocking out and baseball drama, we also did the voices for a movie.

In _The Chipmunk Adventure_ , as always, the Chipmunks and Chipettes are portrayed as early adolescents - perhaps twelve years old or so. Dave's out of town, so the Chipmunks are staying with the Chipette's adoptive mother. After playing a ballooning video game, they argue about who would be better at ballooning in real life. Overhearing their argument, a man offers to set them up in a competition - boys against girls - to balloon around the world, with a prize of a hundred thousand dollars. They all agree, and start planning a way to "ditch" their adoptive mother to set off on this race. It's later revealed that the man is using the chipmunk balloon race to smuggle diamonds to various points around the world.

...I'm sorry, but does any of this make any sense at all? I honestly can't say that I really remember what it was like being twelve. But I'm pretty sure if a guy had offered me a huge cash prize to compete in a balloon race at that age, I would have said, "Um, I don't think so. I've never been in a balloon before". And this wasn't a twenty-mile race - it went around the entire planet. The last way anybody would ever choose to smuggle diamonds would be entrusting them to novice-pilot adolescent chipmunks in hot air balloons. Chances are the diamonds would sink into the ocean three miles from the starting line...along with the chipmunks.

Yeah, yeah, I know. It's just a cartoon for kids. But I kept shaking my head and saying "really?" I did eventually manage to shelf my disbelief somewhat. I got to a point where I would read the next part of the script, and think, "oh, OK, now Theodore was going to be treated as an African god". Then I'd shrug and work on reading my lines the best that I could.

I had a better time recording the songs. The backing music was typical mid-80s synth-pop, which was no surprise. No sense doing any trailblazing while recording music for a children's film, right? And given that, the songs were actually pretty good. "Girls and Boys of Rock and Roll" was catchy, and I think RCA was hoping for a hit single from that song - if not by us, then in a remake. Ross also managed to worked a nice bit into the film. He had Mrs. Miller (the Chipettes' mother) sing both "Witch Doctor" and "Come on-a My House", two of the biggest hits written by Ross's father.

What should have been the biggest musical moment from the film sadly never happened. Ross somehow got Jeff Lynne to write a song for us, which he recorded with his band Electric Light Orchestra. Yes - there exists an ELO song written specifically for the Chipmunks. We never got to meet him, but it was a huge honor, regardless. Due to record label issues, however, the song had to be cut from the film. The song "A Matter of Fact" ended up as an ELO b-side, and you can find it in their box set, too. It was replaced in the film with our rendition of "Wooly Bully", which was adequate but not exactly an even trade.

Disney had laid off a bunch of animators right around the time the film went into production, so Ross and Janice hired some of them up to handle the animation of the movie. Because of that, the cartoon at least looks really good. Unfortunately, they also subcontracted some of the animation work to an overseas studio, and that ended up causing major headaches and delays. As those problems began piling up, Ross and Janice had to make cuts in the film rather than wait forever for them to finish up. Twice, Alvin and Janice flew out to New York to meet up with Simon and me, so we could record new hastily-written dialogue to fill in some gaps.

The original plan was to have the film in theaters for Christmas 1986, but with all the delays, it finally saw the light of day (or dark of theater) in May 1987. The critics were surprisingly kind, but both Siskel and Ebert echoed my misgivings about the plot. They also made fun of my squeaky voice - thanks, fellas. The movie wasn't really a hit, but it wasn't really a bomb, either. I don't know the exact figures, but I think it more or less broke even. Today, the movie has more or less been forgotten, and honestly, that's probably the fate it deserves.


	40. Through The Decades

The Chipmunks motion picture may not have been a boffo hit, but the Saturday morning cartoon remained a ratings winner. So Simon and I continued our yearly sojourns out to Los Angeles. Most of the episodes sort of run together in my head, but there was one that sticks out. That episode revolved around The Chipmunks finding their birth mother. To be honest, I really don't like revisiting that part of my life, even in cartoon form. And I especially didn't like that the plot had the mother - a regular chipmunk - just bring three youngsters from the forest into Dave's house. It suggests that The Chipmunks were nothing but forest-dwellers that Dave Seville "domesticated" somehow. Yeah, I know - it's a cartoon, and it's not really me. But I've always hated any implication that I'm simply a well-trained wild animal. Ross and Janice at least knew how to mollify me a bit. They asked June Foray to provide the voice of the mother. Hey, if I'm going to have a mother in the cartoon, it may as well be her!

With the cartoon still reigning supreme every weekend, NBC decided to branch out a bit, and make a TV special for primetime. Ross and Janice wrote a fake biography of the Chipmunks rock band, and of course invited Simon and me to provide the voices. This time, though, the scheduling didn't work for Simon, and he had to decline. So I decided to take the opportunity to decline, as well. "Stephen and Jonathan filled in," says Alvin, "By that point, Jonathan almost had Simon's voice down pat, and Stephen could do a convincing high-voice Theodore."

Simon and I did fly out to Los Angeles for a weekend to record two songs for the special. One of them was a semi-hip-hop holiday number called "Sleigh Ride" (an original, not the Leroy Anderson holiday favorite), and I completely agree with Alvin's take on it. "As embarrassing as it is to say, there's a surprising amount of backbone to that song. It may be the toughest song we ever did." And since Will Smith hosted the special, a lot of people think that's him throwing down a rhyme in the song. "They added the rap after we had already done our parts, so I don't know who that is. Pretty sure it's not The Fresh Prince, though."

The second song we recorded was yet another recording of "Witch Doctor". "There already existed several Chipmunk recordings of that song," Simon points out. "And rather than simply utilize one of those, NBC granted us permission to attempt something more in keeping with the theme of the program. We sang portions of the song in the style of other performers, past and present." In addition to singing together on the "Elton John" bit, each of us got to sing solo parts on the recording. I was given two singers to impersonate - Elvis Presley and Bob Dylan. I think I did an OK Elvis, but my Dylan may just be the goofiest imitation ever. Alvin's Michael Jackson sounds a bit hesitant, but his Jimi Hendrix was pretty good, and his Little Richard was fantastic.

But it was our other brother's solo turn that blew everybody away. Alvin recalls, "Simon only had one solo section to do: the second-to-last bit, as Bruce Springsteen. You and I watched when he recorded it. He sort of casually strolled as into the recording booth, and put on his headphones. The playback started, and he just stood there calmly until his part came up. Then...it was like he was transformed. His eyes were wide open, his teeth were bared, his fists clenched - it was incredible to watch. And he nailed it in one take."

Simon adds, "After thirty-two years of recording, I finally was granted the opportunity to sing lead on a Chipmunks song. I was not about to do so half-heartedly."

Alvin did a sort of rap bit at the end, and then we were done. Literally. That recording of "Witch Doctor" was the final song we ever recorded as a trio.

"I'm kinda proud of it, actually," says Alvin. "Yeah, it's kind of silly, but it's silly on our own terms. We got to mess around and have fun with the recording. It was as good a way to go out as any."

"The first song any of us recorded was 'Witch Doctor'," explains Simon. "And the last song we recorded together was 'Witch Doctor'. There is a symmetry there which appeals to me."

While we were out in Los Angeles, we also added our voices to a big-budget charity cartoon special - The Cartoon All-Stars to the Rescue. It was a "say no to drugs" message show, and it was sort of a big deal at the time - they even got then-First Family George and Barbara Bush to take part. The day we added our voices, I was placed in the sound booth next to Paul Fusco, who created and provided the voice of ALF. While the director was setting up, I thanked Paul for playing "Ragtime Cowboy Joe" on his show a couple of years back. Paul stared at me and said, "Wait - that was really you?!" My brothers and I harmonized a bit of the song for him, and he burst out laughing. He also got a laugh when I read my big line. In the cartoon, Theodore comes across a cigar box full of drug paraphernalia, and lets loose with this clueless "what's this stuff for?". I joking said, "Well, it HAS been fifteen years since my last joint. I probably wouldn't recognize that stuff anymore."

Months later, I watched the Chipmunks special at home, with just a microwave burrito and beer as company. And to be frank, it wasn't an easy thing for me to sit through. Will Smith, Ben Vereen, Kenny Loggins - all these famous people talking about these fictional cartoon Chipmunks. Kids might have liked it, but I couldn't help but feel it was a missed opportunity. It's probably just my ego talking, but why not do a real biography? They were showing clips of David Seville on the Ed Sullivan Show, so why not jump off from there? It seemed like the perfect opportunity to come clean about The Chipmunks: who we were, where we were now, everything.

"Publicly admitting our existence was a bell that could not be unstruck," says Simon. "And with the potential for additional profit to be made at some later date, they presumably had no interest in approaching that bell clapper."

After the show ended, I turned off the TV, stretched out on the couch, and thought things over for a bit. The Chipmunks revival had done awfully well for me over the past decade or so. Yeah, I had to give up being in a really good band. But I had made quite a bit of money - more than I thought I ever would. That said, every trip to California was feeling a bit more...work-like. It wasn't unenjoyable, really, but it was starting to get tough ramping my voice up to do all of the dialogue they needed me to do. Did I want to take part in the next season? I sort of half-decided that I did, but I thought I'd keep my options open.

But as it ended up, that decision was destined to be made by somebody else.

I was up in my reading room on a quiet night, reading an Isaac Asimov book and listening to my well-worn album of Holst's The Planets. (I was really slow in replacing my records, and took forever to make the switch over to CDs. That wasn't an audiophile thing - I was just lazy, really.) The phone rang, and thankfully, by this point, I had a cordless phone I would take up to the room with me.

"Hello?"

"Hello, brother," Alvin said.

"Brother! What's new?"

Alvin sighed. "Well, Ross and Janice had their pitch meeting with NBC today. They wrote some scripts where we do different types of TV shows - sitcoms, mysteries, that sort of thing."

I shrugged. "Sounds good."

"Not good enough, apparently."

"Really? NBC turned it down?"

"They didn't even get the whole pitch done. NBC said they're not renewing next season."

"...at all?"

"Nope. That's it. This current season's gonna be the last one."

I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "Oh." After a few seconds, I said, "I don't know how to feel."

I could hear Alvin smile through the phone. "Me neither. I mean, I know I'll miss seeing you every year. And I'll miss the paychecks."

"You're not in any trouble, are you?"

"Nah, Simon set things up pretty good. I got a lot saved up, and Safety Corps's still doing great."

"Well, that's good." I mulled it over a bit more. "So, what are Ross and Janice going to do now?"

"I don't know. The show was a much bigger grind for them than it ever was for us. I bet they're going to enjoy having a little time off."

"Yeah, they probably will."

"But that got me thinking. I think I'd like some time off, too."

"Tired of being the Safety Chipmunk?" I teased.

"Pfft - I hardly strap on the guitar anymore," Alvin said. "Stephen and Jonathan do most of the gigs. I'm usually just booking the shows, arranging the schedules, and shuffling through the feedback cards. But I could use a break from that, too."

"Yeah, I can imagine. What were you thinking of doing?"

"Vacation," Alvin said immediately, like he'd already given it a lot of thought. "Hawaii, Caribbean, doesn't matter. Maybe on a cruise ship. Just me, the warm sun, a fruity cocktail...and my two brothers."

I sat up straighter. "...really?"

"I don't know if you guys can swing it. Don't know about your schedules, or your finances. But I'd love to have you with me, brother."

The idea definitely appealed to me. The only vacations I had ever taken were trips to California for recording sessions. I called up Simon, and he admitted the idea appealed to him as well. So a few months later, we flew back out to California, met up with Alvin, and continued on to Hawaii.

I know there are some people who can find amazing out-of-the-way adventures wherever they vacation, and never do anything even remotely "touristy". Our vacation, on the other hand, could have been a travel brochure. Leis, luau, poi, volcano trip, surf lessons, postcards from souvenir shops, you name it.

"There was perhaps some prudence involved," admits Simon. "Rodents are all but unknown outside of mainland America, and we could not predict what reaction we might have engendered from the local residents. Remaining with tour groups lessened that uncertainty."

Alvin waves that explanation away. "Who cares what other people like? We decided to do all the tourist-y stuff, and we had the time of our lives."

I don't have many photos of me or my brothers. There are probably a few different reasons for that. For one thing, rodents are made to feel pretty unattractive all their lives. "Good-looking for a rodent" is almost the definition of a backhanded compliment. And when you grow up pudgy, and occasionally being called names like "fatso", you tend not to want to look at yourself very much. Even now, I tend to look into mirrors as infrequently as possible. So that probably has a lot to do with it, too.

But while we were enjoying a beach on Maui, I decided I wanted a photo of all three of us together. I had bought a disposable camera to take pictures of the beaches and flowers, just as souvenirs for myself. I flagged down a fellow tourist, and handed him the camera. My brothers and I started to pose next to each other, in a standard "say cheese" sort of way. But while getting into position, Alvin stepped on a little crab, and freaked out a little. I mocked him a bit, we all laughed it off, and then we got back together to pose correctly for the photo.

Back in New York, when I got the photos back from the developer, I immediately flipped ahead to that photo. I was curious to see if it came out. In that photo, Alvin was grinning broadly, as he often did, his arms crossed. Simon was standing up very straight between us, looking very uncomfortable. And there was me. I had tried sucking in my gut, and had a crooked smile trying to cross my face.

I frowned while looking at the picture. It really wasn't what I was hoping for at all.

But then I saw the photo right before it.

Apparently, that tourist took a picture while we were laughing about Alvin stepping on the crab. It's not a great photo. It's a snapshot taken with a cheap camera. And none of us are looking our best. I'm wearing my dark green shorts, and my naked furry gut is hanging out over it. I'm bent over a bit, pointing at Alvin, laughing. Alvin is wearing red shorts, and is holding up his paws like he's arguing, but he's clearly laughing, too. Simon is standing between us in his blue shorts, head slightly cocked, looking at Alvin with a slightly cynical smile. But somehow, far more than that other photo, it looked like us. Like three brothers who had been through a lot over the years, and were still enjoying the ride.

I still have the photo in a frame on my mantelpiece.


	41. I'm Theodore - We're The Chipmunks

In the early 1990s, Ross and Janice made a deal with a new animation company, and began working on some direct-to-home-video Chipmunk movies. As always, they invited us to take part, but Simon and I both declined. I was in my mid-fifties by this point, and the idea of ramping my voice up to act like a clueless child no longer held much appeal to me.

Alvin decided to give it a go, but he ran into problems. "I went over to Ross and Janice's house to do a quick read-through of the first draft of The Chipmunks Meet Frankenstein. And about ten lines in, I just stopped. I sounded terrible. I had started developing that 'old rodent' voice just in the couple of years since the cartoon was cancelled. I tried again, but the more I spoke, the more I could tell my voice wasn't right for the role anymore. Finally, I sighed and told them to forget it.

"It was kind of embarrassing, but not really painful. It was a lot like when the cartoon got cancelled. The money would've been nice, but at least it meant I didn't have to do these silly movies. Ross and Janice were really nice about it. They took me out for drinks and dinner, and we drank a toast to the end of an era." Thus ended our direct involvement with anything Chipmunks-related. After that, we just got a smaller percentage for having our names and likenesses used. Even if, by this point, the characters didn't resemble us in the slightest.

"It is very cheering to think that our handshake agreement from three decades ago remained in effect," Simon maintains. "It was quite evident that Ross genuinely cared about our well-being, and about doing what was right by us."

Off the Chipmunks front, our lives continued on. Most notably, a major event took place in Simon's life. "I was inexperienced, shall we say, with the opposite sex," he admits. "At least, in a romantic sense. I had several female colleagues and friends, but everything had always been kept strictly platonic. And so it remained until I met Professor Sadowsky. In 1992, she became the second rodent professor at Columbia University. Therefore, we obviously had some common ground." Love at first sight? "Not at all, although I found her pleasant and good company. We met for lunch, dinner or drinks a few times a month, and I did enjoy our time together. But that was the extent of the relationship."

So, what happened? "She forced my paw, one might say. One night as we finished dinner, she asked if I were currently dating anybody, and I replied that I was not. She then asked if I would consider her 'dating material', and I had to admit that I had not truly considered her in that regard. She stood up and said, 'Please consider it, and let me know your thoughts,' and then left." And? Simon grins. "And the next day I called her up to ask her out on a date. Your brother is not that big a fool."

About a year later, Professor Thomas Simone (né Simon Chipmunk) and Professor Leslie Sadowsky were married. Alvin flew in, and he and I were two of the ten attendees. "We wanted our ceremony to be quiet, simple and memorable," maintains Simon. "And it proved to be all three." Simon is now retired from full-time teaching. As a Professor Emeritus, he occasionally teaches a course, and he gives guest lectures on musical history at various schools. But he mainly spends his days enjoying his life with Leslie.

The Cemented project ended with a whimper rather than a bang. We played four monthly gigs after our Hawaii trip, but then Simon had a conference booked in another state and couldn't make the next one. We decided to take a break, and told The Beacon to take us off the monthly schedule. And as the months turned into years, the break became permanent. I do miss playing with my brother and everybody else, but at least I have a ton of great memories from those gigs.

As the new millennium approached, I slowly began easing myself out of the nuts-and-bolts operations of HalFlat. I still did the phone work, paperwork, and initial consultations, but Grace (and her assistant, when she had one) did more and more of the actual construction. Grace admits, "I thought this was going to be a fun little job I could do while I figured out what to do with my life. But I guess at some point I decided that building stuff was what I actually wanted to do." Several years later, I sold her a majority share of the company. I was getting older and slower, and it was just time for someone else to take it over. And HalFlat couldn't be in better paws than hers. I still do phone work or initial consultations if she needs the help, but those times are getting more and more infrequent as the years blow by.

I suddenly had a lot of spare time on my paws, and I turned my sights to the internet. I was way behind the rest of the Western world, but I was excited to start learning how to use it. I bought a computer, and eventually started my own blog called "WeAllScream". I made it my mission to review all of the ice cream parlors in New York City (and a few in some other areas, too). It was a lot of fun, even if the site was never all that popular. Sadly, I eventually got into a disagreement with the hosting company and lost the domain. I sort of gave up the blog after that. I probably should restart it someday.

Following my lead, Alvin ended up selling the majority of his company Safety Corps to his long-term employees Stephen and Jonathan. "I was a bit nervous, giving up control. I hoped they would do OK with it. About a year after they took over, they had expanded the business into the Inland Empire. In other words, yeah, they did OK with it."

After his company was sold, Alvin gave me a call, and we had a long phone conversation. With him retired from SafetyCorps, and no more voicework on the horizon, there was nothing keeping him in Los Angeles. Did he want to come back to New York and live with me? "I was very tempted to," Alvin admits. "I really did love Los Angeles, but I also liked New York, and I did miss seeing my brothers whenever I wanted to. But then it occurred to me that you didn't have anything keeping you in New York, either. Maybe you should come back to LA and live with me." We argued about this, in a friendly way, for almost an hour. But finally Alvin came up with the best solution - why not do both?

So in April of 2000, I packed up some stuff, locked the door to my apartment, and boarded a train for Los Angeles. I could have flown, of course, but I hadn't gotten to "see America" since my hitchhiking adventure thirty-five years before. As it turns out, America wasn't all that exciting from the train, but that's okay - I got a lot of reading done. When I arrived in LA, I borrowed some tools, bought some lumber, and did the final solo HalFlat project of my career. Within a week, I had my own bedroom and sitting room above Alvin's living room, and we were officially roommates

The main highlight of my return to Los Angeles took place on May 29th, 2000. On that day, Robert and I took our seats at Dodger Stadium to watch the Los Angeles Dodgers play the New York Mets. "I couldn't believe it," says Robert. "After four decades of talking about it, and a number of near misses, we finally got to experience a Dodgers game together." The Dodgers' Shawn Green made the game especially memorable by hitting a grand slam in the fourth inning. "You leapt onto your seat with your eyes bugging out, yelling 'Are you kidding me?! Are you kidding me?!' It was incredible. I'm so happy I got to share that moment with my long-suffering Dodgers friend."

Alvin calls our living arrangement a "dual citizenship". We live in Los Angeles for several months or a couple of years, and then decide to head back to New York for awhile. Occasionally, one of us moves to the other apartment a month or two before the other joins him. This gives us a little breathing room if we feel that we're starting to get on each other's nerves a bit.

We kept this up for about seven years, but then we started wondering if it was such a good idea. After all, we were paying for and maintaining two residences, and one of them was always unoccupied. Maybe we should just pick one city to live in? We went out for breakfast one morning in New York to discuss it. Over our pancakes, Alvin said, "Well, Ross and Janice have another Chipmunks movie coming out in a few months. Maybe that'll make us so much money that we won't have to worry about it anymore."

"I was totally kidding," Alvin insists. "I was guessing the movie would end up being _like The Chipmunk Adventure_ \- you know, a few extra bucks for us, but no big deal."

We never saw the movie - the previews were more than enough for any of us. ("Alvin literally puts Theodore's shit in his mouth," says Alvin, still not believing it.) But it felt like we were the only ones who skipped it. The movie was a monster hit. It grossed over $200 million, which meant that even our tiny slice of the pie was significant. When the reports for the opening weekend came on, Alvin, Simon, Leslie and I put on our nicest clothes and went out to a fancy restaurant. Alvin ordered champagne, and proposed a toast. "To AL-VIN, Simon, and the one that giggles known as Theodore - thank you for making us stinkin' rich."

I never believe people when they say that they have "no regrets in life". Surely they must have done something they wish they hadn't, or didn't do something they wish they had. That's certainly true of me, anyway. For instance, I wish I'd been a better boyfriend to the girls I'd been with. If so, I might have found someone to settle down with, like Simon did. I also regret not pushing me and my brothers forward as a band. Had we worked on our songwriting, and had the three of us forged ahead as a group, I think we really would have been a rock group to reckon with. But thoughts like these don't mean I regret how my life turned out - far from it, in fact. I've had an incredible run, and I'm very thankful for it.

...ugh! Look at me, droning on and on about myself! That's no way for a guest to act. Listen, I'll tell you what. Let me get each of us a cup of butter pecan ice cream, and then you can start telling me all about you. Sound good?


End file.
